


Lacking

by fincherly



Series: Tears and Stitches [1]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Explicit depictions of suicide attempt, Gen, Mentioned desran, Self Harm, Suicide Attempt, Tags to be added, Uh... eventual reconciliation, this is just me wanting Des to be taken care of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fincherly/pseuds/fincherly
Summary: It had been a year since Des and Raymond had hunted down the last sects of Targent that remained after Bronev's arrest. Without clear purpose or identity, Des starts breaking down, until Raymond has to take action to ensure his safety. Actions he will be less than pleased with.





	1. The Choices Made

Two days since Des had last eaten.

Raymond was getting progressively more irritated as time went on. He did love his master like his own son, but it was admittedly exhausting to take care of a full-grown man who doesn’t know what’s good for him. He would get into these episodes of wallowing, holing himself up and making a disaster of his room while he built device after device, machine after machine, just to keep himself occupied. The last few little sects of Targent that remained had been eliminated thanks to them (and the yard, but that was just because Emmy worked there and gave Raymond the information he needed to track down those few), and Des was left with… nothing. Plenty to do, but the hate and fire that fueled the last thirteen years of his life had been sated, his goal was accomplished, so… now what?

Des himself was facing an incredible dilemma. Desmond was dead and gone, buried with his family; that was something he’d come to terms with a long time ago. Descole was a proxy, a medium, a canvas to paint on to make him the perfect vigilante to take down Targent. He’d devoted his life to it, and now that it was gone, there was no reason for Descole to exist. He was never truly still; he paced, he invented, he tapped his leg insistently when Raymond forced him to sit down and rest, take his mind off of things with tea or a film, but Des didn’t seem to have any interest in getting help at all. In the three years since Bronev was captured, Des devolved into a mess. He refused to talk about anything not to do with business, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t seek attention otherwise; on rare occasions he would find Raymond and collapse onto him, overwhelmed by the storm of hopelessness and worthlessness he was consumed in. Raymond would pet his hair until Des fell asleep, and when he woke, he would be disgusted with himself. It was a vicious cycle, and it was killing him. Almost literally; sometimes Raymond had to force him to eat. He barely slept. He was destroying himself.

Raymond knew what was best for his dear master, but if he brought anything of the sort up to Des he would be met with resistance. He was hoping Des would find his way out of this hell, but as time went on, he realized that Des needed more help than only he could provide. He was so occupied with keeping Des alive that he didn’t help him live.

When the decision was made, it was only because the Bostonius had stopped for fuel in a port in London. The weather was absolutely dreary; grey clouds swarmed like hornets in the dusk sky. It was the perfect kind of weather for the attitude that Des had adopted, Raymond thought – if this were a movie, it would absolutely be cliché. 

Raymond was worried once more; Des had isolated himself for days on end before, but he had an eerie gut feeling that something was horribly wrong. He couldn’t shake it, as hard as he reasoned with himself. It was when he heard a bath running that his anxiousness peaked. A bath wasn’t a reasonable thing to be anxious about, but Raymond couldn’t help but notice that Des had only taken showers before. Calm down, old man, he scolded himself. The bath actively ran for a good amount of time, and Raymond knew that the one they owned wasn’t large enough to merit the absurd amount of water he heard pouring out of the faucet.

Something was definitely wrong.

He ran up the stairs of their current home, and was alarmed when he saw the flooded hall, the water just reaching the top of the stairs to flow down. He was even more alarmed when, in stark contrast of the white tile floor, red was joining the clear water.

Raymond stepped back from the door, dread shooting down his spine as he prepared himself for what he might see. He balled his fists, bracing himself to break down the door. With a well-placed (and surprisingly forceful, for his age) kick, the door slammed open, releasing a small torrent of water as the dam broke. Rushing in, Raymond saw three things of consequence: an empty bottle of wine, a razor blade, and a clothed figure in the blood-saturated water of the bathtub.

Swearing, he rushed over to the bath and, gathering a semi-conscious Des in his arms, lifting him out of the water with some difficulty and bringing him out of the room into the hall. His dark hair was soaked, his face was pale, his breathing… almost imperceptible. The ruined white undershirt was dyed a sickening pink, the red blooming from where his wrists were slit. The cuts were jagged, hurried, as if it were a spur of the moment decision and not something he thought through. If Raymond were calmer, he would think ‘how typical.’ As it were, Raymond frantically ripped strips of fabric off of his jacket, pressing them to Des’s wrists, replacing them as they got wet so as not to let the water prevent a scab from forming. Luckily, it didn’t seem like he was in for very long, so the blood loss wasn’t fatal yet. Raymond wanted to get up and go to a phone to call an ambulance, but he was terrified of leaving his master’s side for even a moment. He prayed to whatever god was listening that he was able to help enough to make sure he survives.

“What did you do to yourself,” Raymond mumbled to Des, who likely couldn’t hear (or, if he could, understand) him. It was less of a question than it should have been; the one word for it would be ‘resigned.’

He really should have expected this, if he was being honest with himself. Glancing at the bathroom, he made a hypothesis of what had happened; Des got drunk out of his mind, filled a bath, slit his wrists and got in. There wasn’t as much blood as it seemed; still an alarming amount, but just a few drops can dye a cup of water red. The color spread so thouroughly it looked like it was a whole ocean. Raymond sighed, continuing to watch Des for any sign of worsening. His eyelids were fluttering, obviously barely conscious, which was a good sign; the blood loss wasn’t bad enough to make him pass out yet. 

When he did in fact lose consciousness, the bleeding had almost stopped. Raymond waited just a bit more for good measure before carefully lifting Des and bringing him to his bedroom (which, luckily, was the next room over) and laid him down on his mattress. Raymond tied the makeshift bandages tight around his wrists, rushing to the medicine cabinet to grab the antiseptic and suture supplies.

As he worked (this wasn’t the first time Des had done something stupid that required stitches), he mulled over the options he had. He could continue with this, Des under his constant supervision, neither of them getting space. He could retire, but there was no way in heaven he was doing that and leaving Des alone. He could… hm.

He did know one safe house they could go to; the residents were really the only relationships Des had, even if it were mostly antagonistic in nature. He doubted Layton would turn him away, and he had to rely on the man’s dedication to helping anyone in need. Though, this would be a difficult shift for everyone.

He had to have Layton’s phone number somewhere. Des didn’t let a single vantage point (which Raymond thought was just finding different ways to keep an eye on him) go undocumented. A short search of papers led to a list of contact information, scrawled in black ink. Scanning the list, he was suddenly grateful for spending so long with Des, because anyone else would never be able to read this.

He went in to the bedroom to check on Des, who was still lying on the bed. He was still pale, but that’s nothing a bit of food wouldn’t help. Raymond was still shaken from what just happened, but taking initiative is the least he could do. He certainly wasn’t going to sit back and watch Des tear himself apart.

Walking to the phone on the living room wall, he dialed Layton’s number and prayed that the man’s kindness had not withered since he last saw him.

After three rings, someone picked up. “Hershel Layton speaking.”

Taking a deep breath, Raymond replied, “hello, Professor. This is Raymond.”

There was a lengthy pause. Raymond didn’t blame him; Layton hadn’t heard from him since he found out that he and Des had betrayed him. He doubted he had very good feelings about him.

“…Is…,” Layton began, “is there something you need?”

Raymond respected him getting straight to the point. “Yes. I know this is sudden, but my master is… in need of help.”

Layton was quiet again, until he said, “I thought he was dead.”

Raymond sighed. “I thought you might. I can assure you that he returned…,” ‘safe and sound’ was a lie; he had a near-fatal burn on the entire right side of his torso, so he settled with, “alive.”

A sigh from the other line. “What does he need?” His voice was hesitant.

“…A place to stay, and I need help taking care of him. Right now, he’s recovering from a suicide attempt.” He took in the gasp Layton tried to hide. “He’s unstable and has reached the point where I can’t keep him healthy on my own. I know this is a lot to take in, but would you be willing to… take him in? I would be there as well – I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Raymond heard his own heart beating in his ears. If Layton refuses, he’ll have no other options.

“…As long as no harm comes to the other residents of my household, that could be… arranged.” Layton’s voice sounded… sad, guilty, weak. He took a breath and when he spoke again, his voice was more strong. “When will you arrive?”

“About a week; I need to gather our things and he needs to rest until he is well enough to make the trip.” In truth, it was only about an hour’s drive, but he was terrified that something would happen on the road.

“That’s manageable. I’ll… try to set things up as best I can.”

“Thank you. You’re a true savior,” Raymond sighed.  
A nervous laugh from the other line. “I’ll be seeing you in a week.”

“Goodbye.”

Click.

Raymond put his head in his hands. He was glad Des was asleep; he wasn’t prepared to tell him what was going to happen. 

One week.


	2. Medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone involved prepares for the oncoming changes. Dilemmas abound.

“You what?!”

“You need help I can’t provide. You’ve spent too long without anyone’s support – “

“No.”

“Desmond.”

“No!“

“Now you listen here, boy. I’ve sat by while you tear yourself apart for far too long, and I can’t anymore. You need people in your life –“

“You’re enough –“

“-who are able to help you do more than just survive. I should have done something far sooner, and I don’t know how to forgive myself for it. But now, you need others.”

“…”

“I’m not going to let you say no. You don’t have a choice.”

_______

Luke took a moment to process what he was hearing. This was… sudden, to say the least. It was strange to bring back all of the painful memories he associated with the man who was apparently going into their care. A small trickle of dread ran through his system while the image of Descole getting blasted with a sickening ray of light, almost dying in his stead ran across the forefront of his mind. The warring previous hatred and gratitude all mixed together into a horrible, stormy confusion.

Beside him, Flora’s brow was furrowed in confusion. Of course Luke had told her a little about her estranged uncle, but other than the small, quiet mentions, she never heard much about him. She knew better than to pry with either of them; she could see how tense they were on the subject, and she had plenty of experience with knowing what they would tell and what they wouldn’t. By the nervous fidgeting they were both struggling to hide from her, she elected to wait until they were more able to handle the apparent stress of the situation.

Looking up at the professor, Luke saw the telltale signs of agitation in the way the brim of his hat covered his mentor’s eyes. His mouth was twisted in a grimace; Luke had his own experiences with Descole – Professor Sycamore – that tainted his opinion of the man, but he couldn’t imagine what the professor was feeling at that moment. 

The long moment of silence was pregnant, but none of them were willing to break it quite yet. Flora could almost hear the gears turning in everyone’s minds, and elected to get up and make tea to help them relax before beginning to prepare for their upcoming guest.

The rest of the evening was spent in quiet contemplation, growing less tense time went on, each of them taking their time and eventually coming to terms with the news. They each went to bed separately, but the reminder of everything that happened in the Azran Sanctuary proved too much for Luke and his nightmares brought him to crawling into the professor’s bed for comfort.

In the morning, their spirits were up and the professor’s two wards cleaned up (like usual) while he was off at the university, preparing the two spare bedrooms they had. Flora quietly asked questions about their upcoming guest, Luke answering them as best he could while still not giving all the information. Flora learned of Descole’s rivalry with the professor, some points of the various adventures they went on to stop him, and some key points about the six-month trip they took around the world. Luke made sure not to make him seem like too much of a monster, for two reasons: one, if Flora got it into her head that he was an awful person, she would have trouble feeling safe or trusting him, and two, he had made a silent pact with himself to not speak ill of Descole after he very nearly died saving him. He knew that didn’t excuse any of Descole’s actions; nothing really could. But that convinced him of something he admittedly had not thought of before, what with all the hatred that corrupted his view: Descole had a heart under that cold shell.

The week was spent checking and re-checking that everything was in its rightful place, cooking new recipes (Flora had gotten quite good at cooking, over time), and mentally preparing themselves for anything that might come. As the day Raymond had set came closer, the anxiety had become a consistent buzz in their cores. They wished this was all less sudden; though, admittedly, there was no way to come to this revelation slowly. They all thought Descole was dead; he walked straight into collapsing ruins, after all. Any hint of the contrary would have been overwhelming on its own.

Hershel, on the other hand, was terrified. His classes that week were like clockwork; he was almost constantly in a dissociative state, only going through the motions as he’d done so many times before. He didn’t tell Luke or Flora of Descole’s suicide attempt; both he and Luke had witnessed something of the sort the last time they had seen him, but he didn’t want to scare them. He didn’t know the nature of what had happened, but judging by the jarring instability of Raymond’s usually calm voice, it was enough to push him to these measures.

Did Descole know he was going to stay with them? He couldn’t imagine his brother agreeing to this without argument; in fact, if he knew him well enough, he was most likely furious. He never witnessed any disagreements between Descole and Raymond at all, but he didn’t doubt that this would not go across well. 

Above all, he feared for his wards’ safety. Although he knew Descole was capable of kindness and calm, as shown on the Azran trip, he also couldn’t shake the many times he had put Luke and many others in mortal danger that none of them escaped unscathed from. He wanted to trust him, but he would make sure to keep a close eye on him. For everyone’s sake.

 

________

 

Des was scared out of his mind. He was still weak from the blood loss (only thanks to Raymond’s quick thinking), rendering it difficult to move without toppling over. Raymond kept him under his supervision while he went around and packed everything up neatly into two suitcases. The old man’s ability to fit a ridiculous amount in a small space had not deteriorated, it seems. Des scoffed at Raymond’s intense protective measures; he was a grown man! He should be able to do as he pleased.

But he knew Raymond only wanted the best for him. That was the most difficult point to come to terms with; Raymond was the only person who had stayed by his side all these years, and the only person upon whom he could rely.

Raymond, for his part, was wracked with guilt that had been building throughout his time with his master. He had realized early on how unhealthy and destructive Des’s actions were becoming, but he hadn’t said anything or did anything to stop him. He had wanted to, that was true, but what was he supposed to tell him? Des was quick to wrap himself in hate and vengeance; he was dead-set on taking down those who had taken away everything he cared about. Raymond was too cowardly to try and change him, but very soon it was too late. Des had already built these walls around himself. Raymond couldn’t put into words how much he wanted to help Des, but there was only so much he could do; he was only human, after all. But he still wanted to take all these years back, to help Des stay together. But he didn’t. And it was killing him.

Once more, he prayed for his master’s well-being. As he packed things up, keeping an eye on Des, he hoped to everything that’s holy that it wasn’t too late to get help.

If it was… well. That’s something he’d try not to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite things are the tags that people put on my post on tumblr about this lmao
> 
> "How dare you"  
> "Ouch"  
> Lmao


	3. The Questions Remain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of change officially comes, and none of them are ready despite the preparations they had completed.

The week didn’t so much fly by as saunter past with an air of impending doom.

When the time finally came, and everyone had done what they could to get ready, Des was contemplating running. He knew he wasn’t going to; he respected Raymond more than that. But it was the allure of keeping that barrier up and stopping the flood of guilt and anguish that would come if he tried to be more kind or… sociable. He scoffed at that. Ridiculous.

He recalled a conversation he and Raymond had had on board the Bostonius with Team Layton.

_“You’ll only hurt yourself, master,” his butler had said. Des knew he was, in fact, getting a little too comfortable with their temporary allies, but he was convincing himself of the insignificance of it._

_“What do you take me for, Raymond?” Des had protested indignantly. “I’m not the socializing type; that shard of Desmond Sycamore was buried with my family. I have no interest in forming a bond with these nincompoops; the apparent ‘affection’ you accuse me of is only a part of the character.”_

_“You’re right. I mistook you for a human being who craves affection and attention.”_

_Des was taken aback by the sharpness of the old man’s tone. “…Wha-“_

_“Just because you think yourself a monster-“_

_“I-“_

_“-doesn’t mean you are not human.” Raymond changed his tone to a more gentler one. “As much as you would like to deny it, there is a part of you that wants to be kind and gentle. You need to acknowledge that and avoid it for the remainder of the journey, or you will crumble afterwards, as I have seen you do countless times when you underestimate your humanity.”_

_“…”_

_“I must get back to driving the ship. Ms. Altava wanted a try and I must check to see she hasn’t destroyed something.”_

From the start, Raymond had been concerned with his safety. When it became apparent that it was too late to convince Des to stop this revenge spree, Raymond had buried his original wishes for his master in favor of preventing him from hurting himself with guilt.

Des sighed, fingers drumming on his chin while he looked out of the car window. Raymond drove beside him, a tense quiet between them. Des had his glasses on, a scarf covering his neck and an old newsboy hat, into which he tucked his hair. It was late autumn, so the air was chilly enough to merit the black trench coat over his shoulders. He sighed, the anxiety of being seen as who he was, especially without his mask, adding to the stress of seeing his former enemies. They would be mad at him. They already hated him enough, but what was to say they wouldn’t kick him out? He doubted Layton would do anything of the sort (or speak ill of him), but what was to say that that Triton boy or Altava would be so kind? Luke was like an attack dog when it came to anyone being rude to the professor. He was hesitant to admit that Emmy could beat him in a fight, but he had to say that initiating one would be less than ideal. He had to be careful not to lose his temper. As if that’ll stop it, Des thought bitterly. He had a history of allowing his temper to control him, usually resulting in those nearby, as well as himself, being injured. He knew none of the potential residents of the Layton household would permit anything like that to happen.

He recognized the streets leading up to Layton’s home. He was terrified, his leg tapping at such a rate that he was surprised it didn’t count as exercise. He had an oncoming feeling of dread building in his core, coming to a stuttering halt when they pulled up by the curb. He suddenly felt detached, isolated, like he was watching a movie. He had felt this before, but he would try to address it later. For now, he was getting out of the car and grabbing his suitcase roughly by the strap and hauling it up to the front door, Raymond in tow. He could feel his old butler’s nervous gaze on the back of his neck, but he ignored him and raised his fist to knock on the door. Before he had the chance, a suffocating wave of dread overcame him. How was he going to face them? How did he even get to this point? What did Raymond think would happen?

This was a terrible idea. He grit his teeth, clenching his fist and trying to stave the thoughts away and muster up the courage to knock. For all the bravery he showed in life-threatening situations, he was paralyzed by this.

Coward, he thought to himself. It’s not hard; just do it. What are you waiting for? You can’t even do this right.

After a few more moments, Raymond patiently waiting behind him, Des lowered his arm with a clipped sigh. He stepped back to Raymond’s side, head lowered, and nervously clutched his sleeve like a child. Raymond knew this was a request for him to take the initiative, rip the metaphorical bandaid off, and knock on the door.

A muffled shout rang from behind the door, a few thuds heard, then the click of the door latch registered. A girl Des didn’t recognize opened the door, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Ah! You’re the professor’s brother, right?” Her voice was sweet and welcoming, but still that question rang in his ears like a slap across the face. Once again, Raymond took the wheel on this one.

“Indeed, this is,” Raymond had a practiced ease with greeting strangers, which Des was grateful for. The girl put on a little smile and stepped aside to let them in. Although hesitant, Des followed in step with Raymond.

“I’m Flora, by the way,” the girl said, directly addressing him. He was once again taken off guard, and finally turned to look at her. She had wide brown eyes and sun-streaked brown hair, with a slight spring in her step to match. Des didn’t know how to introduce himself.

“…Nice to meet you,” Des muttered. He didn’t know what it was about this girl, but… he wanted to trust her. But who exactly was she? She was far too young to be Layton’s partner in any way, so… his daughter?

A jumble of steps rang down the stairs as Luke rushed to greet their guests with anxiety-born enthusiasm. Des immediately looked away, his face taking on an expression of extreme displeasure. A few moments of silence encompassed them, until Des looked over to find Luke just staring at him, a quizzical look on his face.  
“What?” Des growled, discomfort in his tone at the attention he was receiving from this boy.

“…Oh!” Luke snapped out of his trance, meeting Des’s eyes. “S-Sorry, I’ve just never seen you in anything other than a suit. It was weird.”

“I apologize for owning casual attire. Where is Layton?” If he was going to face his former rival, he was going to get it over with as soon as possible.

Calm footsteps came down the stairs as Layton came to welcome them. His breath hitched only a little upon seeing them, then recovered remarkably quickly and came to face Des.

“…It’s nice to see you again,” Layton stated hesitantly, holding out his hand for Des to shake.

“Don’t lie to me,” Des snarled, smacking the professor’s hand away. “I’m only here because Raymond forced me; don’t try getting friendly. Where is my room?”

He wanted to revel in Layton’s reaction; he wanted a fight, wanted to keep them away. But he didn’t know how to feel about the crushing hurt on Layton’s face, hidden quickly. If Des didn’t know any better, he would say that it looked like guilt. But there wasn’t any reason for Layton to be guilty, so he let it pass.

“…Up the stairs, three doors down, on the right. Raymond,” the professor said, addressing his butler, “Your room will be across the hall.”

“Of course, Master Layton. Thank you.” With a nod to Des, Raymond proceeded up the stairs. Des hurried to follow him, not wanting to be alone with these people.

Flora waited until she heard the door slam to say anything. She turned to face Layton and Luke. “He doesn’t seem very happy to be here,” she stated plainly.

“I would be surprised if he were.” Luke had a troubled look on his face. “In fact, I would think he was an imposter if he looked the slightest bit glad.”

The professor still had a wall up, but Flora could see through it after spending so long with him. He was hurt; he was sad. He had an unmistakable air of grief about him.

Hershel had only one question on his mind: How was this going to change everything he’d gotten so used to?

He hated change. But he had to try, for everyone’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to suffer


	4. Must Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't settle in.

Seething. Des was positively livid.

He wanted to be mad at them. He wanted to be furious; he was, but he couldn’t find a valid reason to be. They were so _nice_ , so _welcoming_. It would be so much easier to hate them if they weren’t, but the sheer fact that he couldn’t find a reason to be mad at them was making his blood boil for no good reason. He was petty, pathetic – why was he like this? He needed a fight. He needed them to hate him. He needed them to reject him, make it so he could be angry at them and not just at himself.

Sitting on his irritatingly comfortable bed, Des wanted to hate it here. He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t been in a bed this… homey since he had a home life of his own. He didn’t want to stay here, only because he did.

 

* * *

 

  
Hershel sat on the couch, a book in his hands that had grown tedious as soon as he solved the mystery it depicted. The main characters were too blind – it was becoming a little irritating. His mind raced around things he didn’t want to face at the moment; he only picked up the book because he’d hoped it would distract him long enough to get another one. He sighed, knowing he was being childish. He just hated uncertainty. It was the one thing he allowed himself to hate.

The only thing keeping him from going to check on Desmond was the overwhelming fear that the other would reject him again. He wanted to help his guest be more comfortable, knowing the troubles he had faced before his arrival. He had gone through some of those same things himself, he thought as he glanced at the crisscrossed scars upon his wrist. He felt a small bit of confidence rising as he thought of what his friends had done for him when he was in his own dark place right after Claire’s death. He was pulled out of it, so perhaps he could do the same for his brother. He made sure to keep that hope within him for the time being, lest he become disheartened. He was going to help Desmond. No one under his roof will want to hurt themselves.

Or anyone else, a part of his mind chimed. He grimaced. The past experiences he’d had with Des were cause to not trust him, but if he was going to develop it, he needed to forgive him. He did have to admit that it was difficult to keep the fear of a repeat of the giant robot incident at Ambrosia or the image his nightmares provided of Luke being killed there and the other times his own carelessness had put his apprentice in harm’s way.

“Professor?” A voice broke into his thoughts. He flinched, looking up into the face of Luke Triton. The boy (bless him!) had brought a platter of tea and little cookies, setting them on the table as his concerned expression met the professor’s own bewildered one.

“Ah! Luke, thank you,” he sighed. He set down the book, grateful for the comfort of his friend. Luke sat down beside him, taking his own cup of Earl Grey and a crude handful of cookies, which he dumped on one of the little plates he had brought.

“Are you alright, professor?” Luke asked. “You seem distracted.”

Hershel looked to his apprentice after taking a sip of the tea. “What brought you to that conclusion? I was merely reading.”

“You were staring at the same page for five whole minutes, and your eyes weren’t moving. What’s on your mind?” Luke wondered, the gentleness of his tone calming Hershel’s nerves.

Hands wringing, Hershel brought his attention down to his lap. “…I’m only concerned. It’s a normal reaction to the recent changes to our household. I’ll find my way out of it, don’t worry too much about me, my boy.” He tried to give his little friend a smile he hoped was convincing.

Luke had an indignant look on his face. “I’m worrying.”

Hershel sighed once again. “I figured about as much.”

“I don’t think he’s going to settle in for a while,” Luke admitted. Hershel was almost grateful for his apprentices willingness to get straight to the point.

“That much is… probable. I only hope he doesn’t take out his frustration on any of you.”

“You forgot to include yourself, professor.”

Hershel blinked, once again turning his eyes to meet Luke’s. “I’m sorry?”

“You said ‘on any of you.’ You didn’t mention yourself. ‘Us.’ On any of us is what you meant.” Luke had such a sincere look on his face; Hershel took his small hand in his own.

“…I know. I know, Luke.”

 

* * *

 

  
Flora knocked on Des’s door.

The latter leapt up to tell the visitor off, slam the door in their face, keep to himself. He opened his mouth in a snarl as he swung the door open, prepared to spit at the intruder. Whatever words he had planned to say were whisked away as soon as he met the gaze of that girl. What did she say her name was? Flora. Right.

Flora was startled by the apparent fury etched onto the man’s features. She had expected as much, and prepared accordingly, but the hostility was still shocking after spending so long in a friendly household. She recovered quickly and adopted a kind smile. “Hello! Do you need any help settling in?”

Des blinked, dazed. Why did she have this effect on him? “Ah…,” he began, “I… No, I don’t think so.” He had finally found his voice.

Flora nodded, choosing to believe him instead of pushing in case he got irritated. She wanted him to trust her with a clean slate. “Alright, Mr…,” she paused. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“…Desmond Sycamore,” he heard himself say. That was shocking to him; he hadn’t actually called himself by that name without thinking about it in… a long time. He wanted to correct himself, but he was honestly unsure what he would say instead.

Flora’s smile never wavered, even widening at his reply. “Alright, Mr. Sycamore, let me know if you need anything. I’m in the room next to your butler’s.”

He nodded, then closed the door as she left. He leaned back on the door after turning, putting his head in his hands as he slid down. He figured it out; her hair was just like his daughter’s.

Not the streaks, no, but the brown and the ponytail was a match. Her eyes were the wrong color, but she carried the same sweetness and confidence. He forced his breath to slow to a normal pace, smacking his head against the door at his back and held his hands in a sort of prayer position under his chin. She was going to be even harder to hate.

* * *

 

  
Raymond wasn’t surprised at the hostility, but he did worry about the many more fights to come. If he knew Des at all, he wouldn’t even make an effort to be friends with the others. If anything, he would actively resist.

He finished unpacking, electing to go and get Des and himself something to eat. Down the stairs, Luke and the professor were sitting on the couch, the latter appearing to have fallen asleep. He walked past, nodding to Luke as he came closer. He noticed the nearly empty tray on the table.

“Would you like me to take care of that for you, Master Luke?” Raymond asked, his butler’s instincts prominent. Luke brought his finger to his lips and quietly shushed him.

“Don’t wake him!” Luke whispered. “He hasn’t gotten any sleep this whole week.”

Raymond nodded. “As you wish.”

“B-But no, you’re the guest. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly to let guests do the housework,” Luke whispered, confidence increasing once he said that.

Raymond smiled. “In that case, could I take the platter upstairs?”

Luke hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

Raymond bowed a little before collecting the tray and turning towards the stairs.

“R-Raymond,” a small voice said.

He turned to face the boy. “Yes?”

Luke paused, hands wringing in a gesture that seemed too old for him. “…Will he… Will he come around eventually? Descole, that is.” Luke sighed. “He seems like he hates it here, which… isn’t surprising, given. Do you think he’ll…?” Luke trailed off.

Raymond smiled sadly. “You’re mistaken, Master Luke. He doesn’t hate it here. He only hates that he doesn’t have a reason to hate it. I will be upstairs should you need me.”

Luke had to take a moment to process that.


	5. What goes up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flora reaches an accord.

Raymond brought the remaining tea up to Des’s room. He knocked four times on the door; the first two were loud, the third quiet, the third back to loud. They occasionally used that in Des’s plans to signal that it was Raymond at the door and not any unsavory people. He felt as though this situation called for it. He waited patiently until the door opened.

Raymond peeked his head around at Des, smiling. “Tea, Master?”

Des looked at the platter on his friend’s hands. He sighed in relief as he took a cup. “You’re too good to me, Raymond,” he chided, trying and failing to hide a smile.

Raymond bowed as Des got on the bed sat upright against the headboard. Raymond took a seat on the edge, taking a sip of the now-cool earl grey. Des sighed. “These people will be the death of me.”

Raymond turned to him. “They haven’t done anything to you yet, Master.”

Des groaned, leaning his head back. “I know that, Raymond. But I can’t just... they hate me. I don’t understand why they aren’t showing it.”

Raymond laughed. “None of them would do so even if that were true.” Des smirked, leaning his head against his hand.

“Oh, of course not. They’re too prim and proper,” he said, his tone mocking. He swirled the tea around in his cup. “Too much of a gentleman.” He scoffed at the idea, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “I’m not sure Layton has space free in his mind enough to hate anything. Too busy laying his jacket on puddles for ladies and tipping his hat at passersby.”

“You really should give them a chance, Master. You can’t stay holed up in your room forever.”

Sighing, Desmond curled up tighter against himself. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“I know you won’t,” Raymond corrected gently.

There was silence for a few minutes as they both finished their tea. A knock on the door brought them out of their thoughts. Turning to look at Des, Raymond saw the conflict in his Master’s eyes. He could really be read like a book without his mask.

“Mr. Sycamore? It’s Flora. I brought you some food,” a high-pitched voice called. Desmond hesitated. He let out a sigh and nodded at Raymond. Curious, the latter went to open the door for the girl.

“Oh, ah, thank you!” Flora said, a tray of sandwiches in her hands. She set them down on the table and smiled at Des.

“I don’t know what you like, but chicken is always good.”

Des nodded stiffly. He took one of the halves and bit into it; not bad. He only then realized how hungry he was. When had he last eaten? He sighed in relief.

Flora continued looking at him, a contemplating look playing on her features. He looked up at her earnest face, wondering why she was staring and wishing she would stop. He wasn’t used to being looked at for long periods of time.

“…May I help you?” Des asked, trying and failing to not come off hostile.

Flora started, stepping a little back as she snapped out of it. “Ah, I’m sorry! I was just… er… lost in thought.” She gingerly took a seat on the chair resting by Des’s bed. The latter unconsciously shifted away from her. “I’m only curious.”

Meeting her eyes, he felt his features soften. “As am I,” he muttered. “If I may ask, what exactly is your relationship with Layton?”

Flora smiled. “I’m his daughter.” Desmond was baffled, and judging by Flora’s giggling, it showed on his face.

“What? …I didn’t think he had a wife.”

Flora’s smile turned sad. “He doesn’t. He adopted me a while ago.”

Desmond nodded slowly, letting that new information sink in. “He just… adopted you? Living as a single parent isn’t easy; why would he…?”

Flora sighed exasperatedly. “Well, to be honest, he hasn’t been… a model father, really. It is difficult for him to find time with all the things he has to do.”

Desmond blinked. “Why would he take you in if he didn’t have time for a daughter?”

“…If you must know, I was adopted after he and Luke investigated my village, which was mostly inhabited by robots per the request of my deceased father.” Flora was startlingly cold in saying this.

Well, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “…I see.”

They sat in silence for a while, Desmond only looking at her and cursing himself for talking so easily. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt; this girl didn’t have reason to hate or distrust him yet, so why not take this chance to dig for information? No, he scolded himself. Don’t limit her to this. You’ve made that mistake before. “What… exactly did you mean by ‘not a model father?’ If you don’t mind my asking, of course.”

Arms crossing, Flora curled a bit into herself. “He’s… Well…”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Desmond urged gently.

“No, it’s alright,” Flora replied. “He just… always goes on these adventures with Luke and leaves me behind. I understand; he’s known Luke longer than he has me. It just… It’s still lonely.” Sighing, she leaned back. “I’d lived in a tower in my village for my whole life, until recently. I thought…,” Flora trailed off, looking up to meet Desmond’s eyes. “I-I’m sorry,” Flora lamented. “I just met you and I’m talking to you like you’re my therapist.”

Desmond chuckled. “While I certainly don’t fit those criteria, I don’t mind you answering the questions I’d asked.”

She hesitated, then began. “When Professor Layton found me and adopted me, I was excited. I hadn’t known I was living in a village full of robots until I felt the warmth and hope he gave me.” She sighed. “He was kind and loving in a way robots just can’t replicate. But… after a little while, I noticed that with all the love he gave me, he always seems to give more to Luke.

“I’m not… jealous, really. I don’t hold anything against Luke; and yet…” Pausing, Flora took a deep breath. “I was enchanted by the world, truly. But it feels like I’ve seen all there is to see. I didn’t think I would miss my tower as much as I do. It hurts.”

Desmond only listened. He was terrible at comforting people, but Raymond had always listened to him while he ranted and only his presence had been enough to reassure him; the old man really was like what fathers were supposed to be. He figured that an ear was enough for Flora.

Without realizing it, he found himself speaking. “I can’t say I have the same experience, but…,” he began, “I do know what it’s like to not have as much support as I might like.” Looking around, he tried to meet Raymond’s eyes to assure him he means no offense, but his butler was gone. “I swear, some day I will put a bell around that man’s neck,” he grumbled.

“What was that?”

Desmond shook his head. “Nothing.”

Flora giggled.

Over the course of thirty-six hours, Flora made sure to set aside time to chat with Desmond as much as she could. That first talk they had ended with his guilty request to not tell Luke and the Professor about them talking; he didn’t want them getting misconceptions and trying to be all buddy-buddy with him. Flora didn’t quite understand his motives for being ignored by them, but she did recognize the fear lacing his voice. She let him have his space until it became necessary to bring him out.

That moment quickly became clear as she saw the discomfort Luke and the professor showed in normally comfortable situations was became stifling. She had to be careful with this, because if she was going to maintain Mr. Sycamore’s trust, she had to convince him to come down without agitating him.

Flora met him in his room once again, this time with fresh tea and a plate of tiny croissants. Once again, they talked.

“So I hear you’re rather good at disguises,” Flora commented.

Des laughed. “I’ve had a lot of time to practice. It’s not easy being a world-class criminal, you know; if people know your identity, things get messy.”

“How long has it taken to get as good as you?” Flora’s enthusiasm was endearing.

“Well, for me it took…,” Des muttered, trying to reach in his memories. “Roughly thirteen years or so.” Flora’s look of total confusion startled Desmond. “What?”

“…How old are you, exactly?”

Desmond returned her quizzical gaze. “Around forty. Why?”

Flora’s little mouth dropped open for a minute before recovering. “Nothing you just… look much younger, that’s all.” She giggled. “I would’ve thought you were younger than the professor.”

Desmond groaned, leaning back. “I know. It’s infuriating.”

“What? Why is that?”

“People tend to underestimate you if you look young. The amount of times some bozo has called me ‘sonny’ or ‘kid’ is ridiculous,” Des complained. He lifted his head and put on a mockingly condescending expression. “’Not back for a rookie’,” he said, his voice totally changing to one of pretentious sputtering.

Flora laughed. “I know how that feels. But there must be some upsides to it, right?”

“Oh, of course. Charm is a good way to get information. You have no idea what people have told me.”

Flora clapped her hands. “Oh! What have they said?”

Desmond smiled, taking on a look of contemplation. He laughed once again, a little blush on his cheeks. “Not all of them are… appropriate, I’m afraid.”

Flora covered her mouth and laughed wildly. It took her around ten seconds to recover. She was so caught up in the conversation, she nearly forgot what she needed to do. Cold dread ran down her spine; she was afraid of losing the easiness with which they talked. “Er… Mr. Sycamore?”

“Yes?”

Flora took a deep breath. “I… was wondering if you would be comfortable with coming downstairs. You don’t have to stay, but staying holed up here isn’t healthy.”

Des’s expression changed from cheer to cold seriousness in a flash. He turned to stare at the wall across from him. His silence drew on, Flora’s nervousness coming to a peak.

Suddenly, Des sighed. “I… suppose. But not right now, if you please.”

“Oh, of course not!” Flora couldn’t hide her relief. “Just soon.”

A moment of more comfortable silence fell between them. Flora got up, dusted off her dress, and said her farewell to Des as she went out the door. The moment she closed it, she threw her fists in the air in victory. Now all that’s left is to wait.


	6. Must Come Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Des finds his reason.

After Flora left, Desmond took a moment to collect his thoughts. He didn’t have many at that moment, mostly just rogue, displaced feelings of distress and fear. What on Earth would he say to them once he went downstairs? He knew the whole purpose of going downstairs was to face the other members of the household, so he banished the passing thought of going in the dead of night just to say he did. He was infuriated with himself to some degree of letting Flora in so easily, but he doubted there would be any lasting side effects that would haunt him, so he let it pass. She was trustworthy from what he could tell. He had to admit, it was nice to have someone to talk to.

If she had met him before this, he would never have talked to her like this. He would’ve been just as cold with her as he was with the other residents. But there was something about the clean slate she had in regards to him that was comforting. Of course, that raised a glaring question: if he were to do anything that hurt her, would her view be permanently tainted? Would he lose the trust he had accepted from her? He elected not to think about. He resolved to getting up and taking a shower. He hadn’t taken off his glasses yet; he didn’t feel comfortable being bare of either his glasses or his mask. They were what defined him as a person. Without them, he felt constant confusion and uncertainty.

He didn’t know where the shower was, but he was at least prepared to ask whomever he needed to. He was sure Raymond knew, but if he didn’t, he would ask Flora. He got up and dug through his suitcase, pulling out a red dress shirt, a dark waistcoat, and slacks. He would feel better when he was in nice clothing.

Gathering his things in the crook of his arm, he opened the door a crack to make sure the coast was clear. As usual, the hallway was empty save for the little paintings on the walls. He sighed, closing the door noiselessly behind him. He walked quietly to where Flora had told him her room was, only to notice the bathroom door open across the way. He silently thanked whomever it was who had left it last for letting him notice it without having to ask.

Time to feel less disgusting.

 

* * *

 

  
Flora was happy, of course, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous again. It was a milestone in itself for him to agree to face the others, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to go wrong. It was inevitable that there would be at least one disagreement, seeing as how unwilling Desmond was for Luke and Layton to know that he had been talking with Flora. She had to keep faith, though. It would never go well if she kept telling herself that it would fail.

She picked out a plain peach dress and tied a ribbon around the center. It was about time to change anyways.

Luke used to tease her about always wearing dresses even around the house, until he tried one of them on. He had stood for a moment, then his eyes widened and he told her how surprisingly comfortable it was. He never made fun of her again. Flora closed her eyes with a smile as she remembered the bashful look on his face when he handed it back.

She was happy here, of course. She had a father who tried his best and a friend who was a brother in all but blood. She had grown used to it here. All she wanted now was something she wasn’t used to.

She wanted adventure. She wanted to go out and participate in a great quest or mystery without just being baggage or just some damsel to kidnap. She was a little resentful of the other two’s habit of leaving her behind: why did they get to go out and do incredible things while she stayed back and… what, cooked? Cleaned? She didn’t understand; Luke was younger than her, and about as strong if not less. She didn’t hold it against him. She tried her best not to hold it against the professor, but she knew she could only be abandoned a finite amount. She wished she could make him as happy as Luke did.

For now, all that matters is helping Des settle in. She hadn’t gotten used to his company yet.

If she was being honest with herself, she would say it was exciting. But for now she was only nervous.

 

* * *

 

  
Des straightened out the collar on his shirt. His hair was mostly dry, almost back to its usual bunched-up state. Walking out of the bathroom, he noticed Flora’s door ajar. There wasn’t any noise from inside, so he guessed that she was downstairs.

Did she expect him to go with her? When did she want him to go and face the others? He didn’t want to, but he had to admit it was getting a bit boring being upstairs all of the time. He didn’t have any of his tools or scraps with him, so he couldn’t build something without asking Layton if he had any spares. He sighed. He needed to get shoes on, then he would go down.

  
Luke’s legs were swinging as he waited for Flora to finish making dinner. The professor was in the kitchen with her, making tea, supervising to make sure she didn’t burn herself. Truth be told, she had only done so once before, but the professor was such a mother with her that he couldn’t help but worry.

It was when Hershel came out with the tea that light footsteps make themselves known on the stairs.

“I swear, Layton, do you ever clean?” Descole’s voice rang loud and clear. “It’s a pigsty.”

Luke and Hershel were nearly speechless at the sudden reappearance of their ‘guest.’ They shared a look, startled when Flora replied, “no, he doesn’t, actually.”

Des stopped at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at the two gawking at him. “What?”

They were both quiet for one more moment before the professor spoke.

“…Tea?”

“Please,” Des replied. His air of easiness was disorienting to everyone involved except him. For Des himself, he was used to feigning confidence and superiority when he was uncomfortable, so he decided to put that to use if he was going to pretend to be friendly with these people. He strode over and took the cup Layton offered, taking a seat by the table. He still felt tense, but he couldn’t show weakness. He didn’t want them to try ‘comforting’ him.

Luke was baffled. What caused this… sudden turn of events? He watched Descole swirl his tea around, watching the surface with a contemplating look in his eyes. The professor stood by, seemingly lost with what to do. Obviously something was different. Luke felt bad for wondering, but old habit made him fear that he was up to something. He knew he probably wasn’t, but he couldn’t shake the feeling.

Flora came out after putting dinner in the oven, smiling warmly at the new company. Des nodded at her, not giving the others a reason to think he had become close with her. He felt guilty, since he was truly grateful for her, but he just… couldn’t bring himself to let the others know.

Luke cleared his throat. “So… Do you like it here, so far?” His voice was timid at best.

Des scoffed. “In terms of physical comfort, yes. The beds are perfect for wallowing,” he said.

“It was good of you to come down,” Layton chimed. He was smiling warmly, but Des could clearly see the worry lacing his features. “I was beginning to think you’d never leave your room.”

“You know I love to prove you wrong, Layton.” Descole huffed, taking another sip of tea. He resisted telling Layton how good it was.

“How long has it been since you two have seen each other?” Flora asked, tilting her head.

Layton and Descole looked at each other.

“…Four years?” Layton asked.

“I believe so,” Descole murmured.

Luke grimaced as he remembered the last time he saw Descole. At the time, he couldn’t describe the odd feeling he had when he watched Descole walk into the rapidly collapsing ruins to his supposed death. For the longest time, he felt like he had lost something important, but he couldn’t remember what it could’ve been. It was much later when he figured it out.

He never thanked Descole for saving his life. That had eaten away at him; guilt wracked him every time he thought about it. If he had only seen the telltale glow in the ‘dead’ statue’s eyes, Descole wouldn’t have had to risk his life. He had very nearly lost it; when they left him, he was alarmingly still, breaths unsteady and his body limp save for occasional twitches. He couldn’t decide how to feel about it. On one hand, Descole had caused his family so much anguish and suffering in Misthallery. His mother still can’t stand staying in one place for very long, and his father hasn’t yet totally forgiven himself for lying all that time. Not to mention Descole’s manipulation of the professor’s childhood friend, convincing the poor man that his faithful friends had turned his back on them.

But that trip with him as Desmond Sycamore… he took a long time to think about that. At first, Professor Sycamore had been distant, only cordial. But as time went on, the man seemed to come out of his shell and the eyes behind the glasses finally joined his lips in smiles. Of course, on occasion he would separate himself from them, but Luke had always made sure to spend time with him; he was fun to talk to. His stories were interesting, and he was funny when he wasn’t actively trying to be. His voice carried enthusiasm that made people want to listen to him. Luke really felt like Sycamore had become his friend.

When he had revealed himself as Descole in the Nest, Luke was furious. He felt like a pawn, played for so long. The nerve of that man to make him think for one second he cared about him! The good memories he had with Desmond Sycamore were quickly corrupted, replaced with the man in the mask who supposedly had only used them all for his own purposes, without actually caring about them one bit. But in the Azran Sanctuary, Descole had saved his life. That event went against everything he thought he knew about Descole.

He wanted to thank him now, but he didn’t know how to phrase it. Plus, Flora didn’t yet know of what had happened four years ago. It was best to tell her slowly, starting with details less… morbid.

He settled for more polite, casual conversation. “Believe it or not, I’m actually glad to see you again,” Luke admitted, trying to convey his sincerity. “I didn’t think I’d be, if I’m being honest, but I was… relieved, I guess.”

Descole watched him, piercing gaze searching for a sign of untruth. When he couldn’t find one, he took another swig of tea. “Hmph. Never thought I’d hear that.”

Flora gave them quizzical looks, but didn’t question in favor of archiving it for later. “When did you two find out you were brothers?” She tilted her head once more, remembering something Luke had told her during the brief little description he had given her.

They both looked down, Descole leaning his head against his hand. Layton had both hands fidgeting in his lap.

“I already knew; I was old enough to retain memories easily. Enough to hold a grudge, at least,” Descole explained.

“I only found out when he told me,” Layton said quietly.

Luke took the teapot and filled his cup, using the last of the water. “Aw, no!”

“No worries,” Hershel chuckled. “I’ll heat up some more.”

The professor got up and took the teapot to the kitchen. Flora turned her attention to Des once more. “Er… I don’t know how to ask this, but…,” she trailed off. “…Are your… parents still around?”

Layton came out and leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen. “Our father is,” he said.

“Unfortunately,” Descole growled, setting down his tea.

Hershel gave him a pointed look. “Desmond!” His tone was scolding.

“What?”

Crossing his arms, the professor gave a disapproving look. “I know you have your reasons to hate him,” he stated, “but it’s wrong to say something like that. Especially about your own flesh and blood.”

The moment the words crossed his lips, he wished he could take them back. He watched Descole’s eyes widen in disbelief, then a cold fury overtook him.

“Wrong?” Des growled. “You’re telling me it’s _wrong_?” Getting up, Descole turned to look Hershel in the eye. “That man, that… _monster_ took away everything I had. Everything I spent my whole life working for!” He began to approach Hershel. “Do you expect me to celebrate his continued existence? Just because he is our _father_?” He spat out the word like poison. Hershel could see his fury rising.

“’I know you have your reasons’ my _arse_. Do you know the reason I hate him? When I married my wife and first saw my daughter’s eyes, I finally knew what contentment was. I finally had a purpose other than my revenge against Targent. I wanted nothing more than to raise my child and live with my wife for the rest of my lifetime.

“But then, I got a letter. No name on it, only a return address. But I recognized the handwriting as soon as I laid my eyes on it. Leon Bronev wanted to talk with me about… _business_ ,” he said, his voice mocking. “Our father finally contacted me after all these years. He told me I couldn’t refuse, and I was too scared to try.

“I met him in his office. He offered me an esteemed position in Targent; he spoke of _riches_ and _opportunities beyond my belief._ Of course, I was baffled. Our father, whom I remember fighting the hardest while being taken away, had become one of them. I asked about our mother; he told me she had died some years before without a hint of grief in his tone. I was almost livid at this point. I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to try to pull me into the very thing that took our lives away. I vehemently refused him. I was disgusted.

“I should have noticed the apathy with which he received my rejection. He was planning on it. He thanked me for coming and excused me, and I watched him go to the phone he had on his wall. I only made out three words as I left: _I was right,_ " he growled, separating the words for emphasis. "It was only that phone call that made me realize something was wrong. One phone call to change everything. One phone call and I found my wife and child dead in the foyer.” He broke off at this point, his vision died crimson. "One phone call, and my family was gone. One phone call was all they were worth to him.

“So yes, Layton, I do wish our father was gone, because if he were, then I would have a chance to be one myself,” He hissed through bared teeth.

He panted, reveling in the shock etched into his brother’s features. He straightened up, walking curtly to the stairs. “Don’t bother calling me when dinner’s ready; I’ve lost my appetite.” He walked calmly up the stairs without another word.


	7. Less of This, More of That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things reel back a little, and Flora makes a decision.

Stark silence reigned for a long moment after Des left.

Flora was wide-eyed in awe at the sheer (and rather sudden) fury that she hadn’t witnessed before now. She knew, of course, that the man wasn’t entirely stable; she could see it in the tense manner Luke and the professor adopted whenever he was around. She knew they expected something like that to happen. Though she couldn’t help but notice the hopeless shock evident in her friends’ faces.

Luke was equal parts horrified and confused, for more reasons than one. He knew that the professor was kind and forgiving, but… to jump to the defense of a man hellbent on power, who stole away families and killed as he saw fit? It was almost unreasonable. He couldn’t fathom why his mentor had done that, no matter how kind the other was.

There was also the matter in the way he said it; he was quick to scold Descole in a way he hadn’t seen before. It was hurried, almost impromptu on his part. Through all the years he’d known the professor, that didn’t quite fit into his understanding of him. He looked away from the stairs to turn his eyes to Hershel. His friend obviously wanted to follow Descole up the stairs, but the warring emotions in his face made it hard to tell what he would do if he did face the other.

Hershel defined himself by forgiveness. He had known for a long time that malice and vengeance only brought on a cycle of pain and suffering, and the only way to break it was to approach the matter with kindness. But even he couldn’t find a way to forgive Leon Bronev, and that was killing him. He wanted to find a way to understand him and his motives; he was driven mad by grief, and he set his sights on the one thing he still had left. He knew that much. But he couldn’t understand why a man whose family was ripped away would perpetrate the same atrocities on innocent people – people like him as he once was before he and their mother were kidnapped. Desmond’s family had nothing to do with the Azran or Targent, but Bronev didn’t seem to have a problem with taking their lives at a moment’s notice.

Of course, Desmond had done much the same to many, including Luke’s parents. He did use families and loved ones as a means to an end, and there was nothing that could redeem that in full. But to kill people without real reason is something he couldn’t understand no matter what, and it seemed that both he and Desmond shared that sentiment.

He didn’t want to hate anyone; he wanted to forgive Bronev. Hate wasn’t something he allowed himself, but the cold burn in his heart was becoming harder to ignore the more Bronev was brought up. The only reason he’d scolded Desmond was because he didn’t want to give himself permission to feel the same way by allowing him to say something so dreadful. Of course, he knew that Bronev was the root of the grief Desmond drowned himself in, and he should have a right to express his… distaste for him. But it was the broken window theory that shoved itself into his attention: if he let himself hate one person, that would open up opportunities and allowance for more. He couldn’t allow it. But he couldn’t find a way to forgive that man.

Straightening up, Hershel gathered up the remains of the plates and cups they had set up and went to the kitchen to clean them. He ignored the glances of his wards for the time being until he was able to shove his emotions down.

 

* * *

 

  
Des wasn’t mad at Hershel. He wasn’t mad at Luke or Flora, either. Nothing that had transpired in the living room was their fault, and he made no effort to deny that. Although he didn’t know why Layton had defended that monster, he couldn’t gather the energy to question it. All that mattered was that he got what he wanted, and he now had at least one thing that he could blame his reclusion on.

If Flora were to approach him now, which he doubted she would (she was kind, not stupid), he would turn her away. Desmond didn’t want to face her at the risk of his temper flaring again. He was fine with lashing out at Layton (if he were honest, he rather wanted to); the man had almost asked for it. Luke, though more difficult to hate due to his charming boyishness, had the knowledge of what could set Des off and was thusly a threat. He didn’t want anyone to speak to him; he needed to sort a few things out on his own.

 

* * *

 

  
Downstairs, Flora decided that she needed a few more answers than she’d been given. She didn’t know if the professor would oblige her the (obviously quite personal) knowledge, but she had to try. If not, she would badger Luke. She was nervous, that was true, but with the occurrences of the past few days she realized there was even more to the ignorance they forced upon her in regards to their past. Something happened, and there were deeper feelings dwelling than anyone seemed to care to admit.

She steeled herself, brushing imaginary dust off of her dress habitually before striding to the kitchen towards the professor. She almost lost her nerve at the sad, distant look in her adoptive father’s eyes while he was putting away dishes. Her heart shuddered, but she needed to get answers if they were to get anywhere. “Professor?” Flora called, her voice soft.

Hershel nearly jumped out of his skin, a plate clattering onto the counter from his jolted hand. He put his hand over his heart to calm it, then looked at Flora apologetically. “Ah,” he sighed. “Forgive me. What is the matter?” His eyes looked so tired.

Flora set her jaw. “Can–?” she began, cutting herself off when she realized that a question could be refused. She needed answers, so she would get them. “Please, tell me what’s going on. Or what happened – because I know there’s at least one thing you’re not telling me, and that’s where this is coming from.” There.

The professor only watched her for a moment, an unreadable look in his eyes, until he sighed and let his shoulders fall. He once again turned to her, a smile on his face that reminded her of the automatons she had grown up with. “…I am not sure how I would tell you, my dear,” he stated. “But I would rather not–“  
  
“I know you wouldn’t,” Flora interjected, “but I think I deserve to know if I’m to be living with the three of you.”

Hershel looked startled at her tone. She didn’t seem mad, only… frustrated. He set the last dishes in the cabinets before placing his hands on the counter. Taking a deep breath, he pondered how to approach this. “It’s a long story, I’m afraid.”

“Do you have plans?” Flora urged, keeping her voice in check so she didn’t scare him with the small aggression in her words she didn’t realize she harbored. “I’m sorry for asking you for this right after… that. The only thing keeping me from waiting for answers is the fact that you’d turn me away again,” Flora lowered her voice, “as you’ve done before.” At his responding expression, she approached and took his hand in her own small ones. “I don’t know what you or Luke went through before you both met me, but I can tell that some parts of you didn’t fully recover. I want to help, and with him,” meaning Des, “in the picture, it seems like I need to start.”

The professor’s expression softened, and he gently pulled his hand away. “…You’re right.”

“I know.”

An amused smile crossed his face, and he chuckled. The expression lessened as the gears in his mind turned, trying to find the answers she wanted so he could provide them. A frown settled on his face as he leaned back so his hips rested against the countertop. He didn’t like remembering everything that had happened with the Azran legacy; though, truly, he remembered very little. Luke seemed to recall the event in technicolor, as was evident in the nightmares that took much too long to cease after that experience. He felt somewhat guilty; his own mind had shut it out while his apprentice’s painted it on the walls. He hadn’t been able to properly empathize with the poor boy as much as he really needed to. He provided company and reassurance; he remembered all those times Luke had awakened him in the middle of the night, nearly in hysterics, to which he’d responded by holding his friend and murmuring ‘it’s alright, it’s alright, I’m here,’ to him until he fell asleep. But he didn’t feel it, and he felt awful for being free of that anguish while Luke suffered.

Flora stood patiently; her guardian often got lost in thought, so this was nothing to bat an eyelash at. He would cut himself off in the middle of a sentence and lapse into silence, his wonderful and yet overactive mind suddenly whirring so he needed to catch up. It was endearing.

His hand holding his chin, the professor quirked his mouth to the side. “I’m not sure I would be able to provide you with all the answers,” he said slowly, feeling out the words, “but I will do my best.”

Flora almost sighed in relief, but she stopped herself. “Thank you, Professor,” she said. But they would have to go somewhere other than the kitchen, or their legs would get sore.


	8. Recounts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flora learns what she needed to know, and comes to yet another decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hard times)  
> GONNA MAKE U WONDER WHY U EVEN TRIED  
> (Hard times)   
> GONNA TAKE U DOWN AND LAUGH WHILE U CRY  
> (These nights)   
> AND I STILL DONT KNOW HOW I EVEN SURVIVED  
> (Hard times, hard times)  
> AND IM GONNA HIT ROCK BOTTOM  
> OOH!

“Luke, would you please give us a moment alone?” Hershel asked his apprentice, an apologetic smile on his face. Flora understood why the professor didn’t want Luke to be present, but still a little curiosity bloomed in her mind before she shut it down. Luke didn’t deserve to have painful memories brought back.

Luke, sitting on the couch and munching on biscuits, furrowed his brows. He nearly opened his mouth to say something before remembering his manners and swallowing his food. “What? Why?”

“I need to speak with Flora,” Hershel said, voice wavering. “About… something.” His hands fiddled behind his back.

Luke’s face turned from indignation to contemplation. Flora could nearly hear the gears turning in his head before he spoke. “It’s about the Azran legacy, isn’t it?” Luke asked, his voice quiet.

The professor flinched ever so slightly. He knew that Luke would want in on the conversation, but he couldn’t bring himself to allow it. Luke had nightmares too often; something would trigger them again. But the professor could never say no to Luke, and he braced himself as much as he could. “…Yes.” Hershel sighed, then faced Luke. “I would prefer you weren’t present.”

“I’ll be alright, Professor,” his apprentice assured him, a confident smile gracing his still so boyish features. “I can handle it; you don’t need to worry about me,” he urged, knowing full well that the professor was going to worry anyways. ‘Twas ever thus.

Hershel frowned, tightening his hands into fists then relaxing them rhythmically. Flora watched them have a silent, gentle argument through their eye contact. A few moments passed before Hershel looked down, defeated. “If you insist,” he sighed.

Luke smiled, scooting over so Hershel could sit down next to him. Flora sat down on the opposite couch, hands folded on her lap. The other two looked tense.

The professor began. “You… know about the past encounters with Descole, yes?” Flora nodded. “After the ordeal with Randall and Monte d’Or, I was just waiting for something to happen. I knew he wasn’t finished trying to complete his goal, which I did not know, and I knew that I would somehow be involved again when he took the next step. A month passed before I received a letter from a Professor Desmond Sycamore, whom I had heard of many times before; an elite archaeologist, and universally regarded as the head researcher of the Azran. The Azran were a mysterious civilization capable of things currently beyond our reach, even thousands of years ago.

“In his letter,” Hershel continued,” he claimed to have found something he described as a ‘living mummy,’ which I was hesitant to believe. I took his word nevertheless and accepted the invitation he had given to join him for a time,” Hershel said. “We were let onto his airship-“

“Which was huge!” Luke interjected, a childish grin on his face. “It was like a flying luxury hotel!”

Hershel chuckled, and Flora laughed at the sudden burst of energy. “It was very nice, indeed,” Hershel agreed. “His butler, Raymond, accompanied us to a town called Froenborg, where Professor Sycamore was waiting.”

“And the mummy, too?” Flora asked with a bit of wonder. She’d never heard such detail in the few stories the professor shared with her.

Hershel smiled. “The mummy was encased in a wall of ice in the cave where Professor Sycamore was. We helped him free her, then were quickly ambushed by a group called Targent, led by a man named Leon Bronev.”

“’Group’ being short for ‘group of jerk criminals,’” Luke mumbled. Hershel quirked his mouth to the side before continuing.

“That is… accurate, admittedly. They took the girl-“

“The girl?” Flora tilted her head. She assumed he was referring to the ‘mummy,’ but she couldn’t help the image of a linen-wrapped ancient pharaoh that the mummy appeared as in her imagination.

Hershel took a moment to process what she was asking; he was so used to knowing these things that he missed the details he needed to tell because they were so common to him. “Ah - The mummy took the form of a young girl. My apologies.”

“They took her, and we had to chase them. The professor shot drones with a machine gun.” Luke send a teasing grin at Hershel, who flushed at the memory of how much enjoyment he’d gotten from that encounter. Flora’s mouth dropped open, an incredulous smile growing.

“You what?”

“They were trying to shoot us down, and Professor Sycamore was at the wheel,” Hershel explained hurriedly. “I had no choice.”

“Oh, yes,” Luke smirked. “You seemed so reluctant. It wasn’t fun at all, because a true gentleman doesn’t enjoy shooting guns.” Luke’s voice dripped with playful sarcasm.

Hershel rolled his eyes at his friend, smiling. “Whatever the case, Luke and I infiltrated their ship –“

“Did you actually ask Luke to come with you, or did he force you?” Flora asked, quirking an eyebrow at Luke with a smirk.

“Like I was going to let him go in there alone!” Luke exclaimed, blushing. “They were dangerous!” Flora laughed; she knew all too well how oddly protective Luke was over the professor, and it was fun to poke at no matter how endearing it was.

“I wouldn’t say ‘forced,’” Hershel explained, placing a hand on his bristling apprentice’s shoulder. “Nevertheless, we found her and Bronev, who threatened to…,” he paused, conflicted at how to tell her that they were both almost killed. Luke, beside him, drew a finger across his own neck to fill the gap. Flora’s eyes widened. “They almost succeeded in kidnapping the girl –“

“But she saved us!” Luke said. “She… did something, and made the ship malfunction so we could escape!”

“Unfortunately, on our way out, we lost the girl. It took us a while to find her, even after joining back up with Professor Sycamore and Emmy, but when we did, she was in the middle of the lake in a small fishing town called Kodh,” Hershel paused, wondering how he was going to explain this next part.

“How did she get there? She couldn’t have taken a boat.” Flora had a quizzical frown on.

“She actually walked on sheets of ice across the surface, which confused us; she appeared to be walking on water,” Hershel explained. “She then chanted, raising ruins from the bottom of the lake. It was then she introduced herself as Aurora, and revealed what we needed to do to unearth the secrets of the Azran. It led us on a trip around the world to find five egg-like artifacts that would act as keys to the Azran Sanctuary.”

“Not before exposing Inspector Bloom as a Targent spy,” Luke muttered.

“Ah – yes, we did stop at London to run a few… errands.” Hershel coughed. “But after a long journey, we acquired all of the eggs we needed. Aurora tried to… ‘activate’ them, but we realized that one of them was forfeit. Targent had gotten ahold of it to lure us to their base, referred to as the Nest.

“We got into the Nest with surprising ease, and met Bronev in his office. After a brief confrontation, we got the real egg. Aurora was able to activate them, forming one large key.” Hershel sighed. “But along with revealing the true purpose of the eggs, she unlocked her repressed memories, which quickly overwhelmed her and nearly drove her to suicide.” Luke twitched.

“But we helped her,” Luke said. “She recovered, then decided that holding the key was too much for her, and gave it to Professor Sycamore. He revealed himself as Descole after that, then ran away. The professor had to make a glider to get to him, but he still got away. We went back to Froenborg to where we realized the Azran Sanctuary was. Descole was already there, and we tried to stop him. He didn’t listen, but we still got ahold of the key.” Luke grimaced. “Then Bronev and his goons showed up, and… Emmy threatened me, and forced the professor to give Bronev the key.”

Flora blinked. Luke had told her about Emmy, the professor’s previous assistant, but he never mentioned anything like that. “Was she working for him?”

“She was still good!” Luke protested against an offense that wasn’t really there. “She was assigned to keep an eye on the professor to begin with, but she still cared about us and kept at our side right under Bronev’s stupid beak-nose.” His voice was bitter, a frown on his face. “She helped us; I don’t think she was supposed to, but she still cared about us.”

“They took Luke as a hostage, and I made a temporary alliance with Descole to chase them. We got Luke back after Emmy helped him escape, and the three of us continued before meeting with an obstacle in the form of deadly statues. Descole took care of them, but one of them came back to life and…”

Luke gulped. “…Almost killed me,” he whispered. “But Descole jumped in front of me and took the hit in my place.” Tears brimmed at his eyes, but he wiped them away. Flora tensed up, wanting to help, but not necessarily knowing how.

Hershel, who wasn’t used to comforting people, slid his arm around Luke’s shoulders and pulled him a bit closer in hopes of reassuring him. Thankfully, it seemed to work, and Luke buried his face against Hershel’s shoulder. “It was then that Descole told me we were brothers,” Hershel said, “and that Leon Bronev was our father.” Flora saw the grimace on his face. “I’m sure he only told me because he thought he would… that it was his last chance to do so. He urged us to keep going and leave him there, and we did.” Professor Layton was silent for a moment, images suddenly flooding him: gently laying Descole down, promising to come back for him. Walking away, looking back at the other, and feeling a sharp sting in his heart. Descole’s breaths were shallow and sparse, and sickening twitches wracked his body. Hershel was certain he was going to die, and he wanted to help him, but… he had gotten this far, and Descole wouldn’t want him to come back for him and let all of his work go to waste.

Flora watched him and the hurricane of emotions in his eyes, giving him the space he needed to process whatever it was that was going on in his mind. She felt intrusive, witnessing such a crack in the wall the professor always had up.

Hershel blinked, then tilted his head. “We followed Bronev and Emmy to the center of the sanctuary, where he followed the instructions that were provided and activated the Azran Legacy – which was actually a swarm of golems, bent on destroying humanity.” Flora’s mouth dropped. “Stones hit by beams of light were powering them, and in order to stop them, we had to… block them.” Hershel’s brows furrowed; this was the part he had trouble remembering in full. He didn’t want to make Luke tell this part, but…

“Aurora told us,” Luke croaked, “that if we stepped into the light to keep it from hitting the stones, we would die.” Flora gasped, then quickly covered her mouth. “But we did anyways, and it felt like…,” Luke paused, a storm in his eyes, “like it was tearing every inch of me apart. Like I was breaking, and acid was in the cracks.” Hershel gathered him up in his arms, unable to bear his friend so upset. “Then it all stopped, and the next thing I knew,” he choked out, “I was back; sore, but… I was alive.” Luke leaned back, wiping his eyes. “Aurora had brought us back, and the golems all deactivated, and… she did too. She was a golem, but so… real. We had to get out, so we… left her.”

“...After that,” Hershel said hesitantly, remembering something. “I watched Descole walk into the collapsing ruins, and I didn’t hear from him since, until… recently. I thought for sure he had killed himself.” He sighed. “Afterwards, Bronev was arrested, and we… just went back to normal, to some degree. The next adventure we were to go on would be the one in which we found you.”

Flora nodded slowly, recognizing the end of the tale. She looked down at her lap, thinking over the events she just heard. It certainly did answer a lot of questions she had, and even through the remaining ones, Mr. Sycamore’s actions were much more understandable than before. She would need a bit of time to work out the connections (the professor’s analytical habits had rubbed off on her) and put together a plan of action. It was obvious before how much had been buried, but the past that had just been divulged to her was… unique, for lack of a better word. She politely excused herself, half wanting to sort this out and half recognizing that the two of them need to be alone for a little while. She did wish she were able to help them, but she knew that they had been close friends for too long. She would work on that at a later date, not to mention start smaller.

She wanted to go up and talk to Mr. Sycamore, but she had no idea what to say. She didn’t want to bring up any part of the story she just heard, but she knew she needed to reach conclusions that weren’t available to her before. She sighed. She would give it one more day and try again. They all needed a break.

 


	9. Dredge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond tells Flora a story.

“Master?”

Des shifted his face towards the door, briefly meeting his butler’s eyes before turning his face back into where his knees were gathered to his chest. He didn’t make a sound when he felt Raymond sit on the bed next to him. A steady hand rested on his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch; Raymond was the only one he allowed this physically close to him.

“I heard bits of what happened downstairs.” Raymond sighed. “I’m not surprised that you lashed out-” Desmond shuddered. “-but… You did go downstairs.” A small smile lit Desmond’s otherwise sad eyes.

“...Flora - ah, the girl - asked me to,” Desmond admitted. “I wouldn’t have done so otherwise.” Lifting his hand to fidget with his nails, he quirked his mouth to the side. “I’m… not positive if that was a good idea, in truth.” He turned to face Raymond at the older man’s chuckle.

“Nonetheless, I am proud of the progress that in itself shows.” his butler affirmed. Desmond buried his face in his knees. “What happened?” Raymond asked, his voice soft. Desmond lifted his head enough to gaze at the wall across from him.

“Layton doesn’t understand,” Des growled, his eyes sharpening. Something shifted in him, but Raymond wasn’t alarmed. He expected this. “He sees the best in everyone; Mr. Happy-Upbringing…,” he barked a laugh. “Always expecting people to be nice and blocking out the rest.” Descole scoffed. “The fool hasn’t had a reason to think poorly of the world.” A pause. “He’ll learn.”

“No one goes without a tragedy or two in their lives; to assume he is free of grievance is a fallacy in itself, Master.” Raymond shook his head. “Perhaps he did have a… better chance, but isolation is the key to letting it fester.” He ran a hand through his beard. “If one has shoulders to lean on, the likelihood of recovery is much in their favor. You grew up alone,” he said as Desmond closed his eyes, “without a reason to trust others.” He sighed. “Who knows what you’d be like if your positions were switched.”

Desmond shook his head. “That doesn’t matter to me,” he muttered, sadness replacing the venom in his voice. “I don’t want his life.”

“Then what do you want?”

Silence passed over them, Raymond waiting patiently for the turmoil in Desmond’s red eyes to settle. Whether or not he switches personas, Raymond only wanted some way to help him; others would be afraid, but Raymond knew Des wouldn’t hurt him. He kept himself still.

“I... ,” Desmond curled up tighter. “...You know what I want.” Raymond nodded and moved his hand to hold his almost-son’s.

 

* * *

 

 

Flora laid on her bed, her eyes tracing unseen maps onto the ceiling. Mr. Sycamore - or Desmond, as she would refer to him if he continued acting like a child - had some questions to answer. She wasn’t angry at him, no, as she knew he had his demons to fight. Still, it was difficult to see him lash out at the professor. If she was patient, she could solve this puzzle. She just needed all the pieces.

So he had had a family. Her gaze softened at the thought; she knew how it felt to lose family. She let a bitter smile pass her face; a daughter who had lost her father, and a father who had lost his daughter. What a cruel trick of fate, to put them together like this.

She thought she’d put this past her, in all honesty. But somehow, the grief and anger she’d forgotten had lifted to the surface of her heart. She didn’t know if it was a good thing, but… it would be addressed one way or another. She was surprised at how easily she came to terms with that fact; no matter how difficult it may be, to settle the sadness laced into her core… that will be worth it. She turned onto her side, pulling the covers over her while a contented smile graced her features.

 

* * *

 

Flora woke to the sound of a shower running. Glancing at the rustic clock beside her bed, she knew it was Des. No one else in this household takes showers at six-thirty. She wanted to go back to sleep, but she pulled off the covers regardless and got to getting ready for the day. She figured she would be more confident throughout the day if she felt put together. She put on one of her favorite dresses; a warm brown, with little yellow laces on the hems. Paul had given it to her a while ago after noticing that she tended to wear the same thing every day. She remembered his grumbling about the professor’s negligence to these things, and she had been pleasantly surprised at how keen an eye he had for dresses. She tied a yellow ribbon into her hair, putting her hands on her hips while she gave herself a silent pep-talk.

It was a while later when she heard the water stop. She waited until she knew he had left the bathroom to venture into the hall, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. She couldn't place why she was nervous, but she knew the butterflies in her stomach weren't from happiness. Flora closed her eyes, letting out a long sigh.

“Are you alright, miss?”

Flora nearly jumped out of her skin; she yelped and backed away from Raymond, standing a few feet away at her right. “Oh - yes, I’m fine,” she laughed, a nervous tremble in the hand placed over her beating heart. “You gave me a fright, there.”

Raymond chuckled, bowing ever so slightly. “I'm terribly sorry. If I may be so bold as to ask, were you planning on meeting with Master Sycamore?”

Flora clenched her jaw, standing up a bit straighter. “Y…,” she began, clearing her throat, “Yes. It’s important that I do.” The determined light in her eyes made Raymond smile. The old butler bowed once more, and turned to go towards the stairs. Before he’d gone too far, he turned back to her.

“You're good for him,” he said, a fond smile lacing the words with sincerity. Flora was taken aback, and was admittedly at a loss for words. All she did was nod, but her heart was doing leaps; she could do this. Raymond seemed to understand her unspoken affirmation, and went down the stairs without further ado.

Flora took another moment to herself; she hadn't felt this powerful in… forever. She could finally help everyone as she’d wanted to. Now she needed to speak with Desmond to get an idea of how to approach… whatever it was she needed to do. She straightened up and walked to Desmond’s door, her knuckles poised over the center. She gathered her thoughts and knocked twice.

She waited with baited breath, hoping he would give her a chance. A few tense moments passed before light footsteps preceded the door being pulled open. Desmond was once again in a button-down and slacks, his auburn hair tumbling down his shoulders in waves.

“Your hair!” Flora cried before she could stop herself. He visibly flinched, and she instantly scolded herself for her lapse in self-control. “Oh, I'm sorry - I've never seen it down, that's all.” So much for a dignified greeting.

Desmond blinked, then ran a hand through the soft waves, looking at it as if for the first time. “Ah - I haven't put it up yet; it's too long, isn't it?” he mused, frowning.

“I like it,” she assured. Long hair had always been a soft spot for her; she wanted to braid it, but she didn't want him to feel uncomfortable. “If you don't mind, I'd like to talk for a bit.” She could see him bristle like a child called to the principal’s office.

She could see that Desmond wanted to ask why, but he knew the answer. The gears in the man’s head turned for a moment before he wordlessly stepped back into his room, leaving the door open, silently letting her in. She gave herself a mental pat on the back; she got this far. Walking through the threshold and closing the door behind her, she stepped fully into the room. Desmond had gone back to sitting on the bed, crossing his legs and resting his hands palms-up on his knees. He would’ve looked like he was meditating if his cautious eyes weren’t watching Flora as she approached him. She pulled a chair beside him. She was sure Desmond didn’t mean to look at her like he was figuring out the best way to incapacitate her in a fight, but she shuddered nonetheless. His gaze softened when he noticed her shiver in obvious fright.

“...What would you like to know?” Desmond asked, keeping his voice gentle and reassuring. He didn’t want to scare her; she was safe. Flora inhaled sharply, not expecting him to speak. She cleared her throat.

“What...,” she began, hesitation and uncertainty dripping from the word, “What happened with you and the professor?” Desmond visibly stiffened.

“Depends which era you’re referring to.”

“Where it began, I suppose,” she replied. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

Scoffing, Desmond turned away from her. “I certainly mind,” he murmured as Flora twitched. He sighed. “But… I will tell you nonetheless.”

Flora let out her breath. “Thank you,” she sighed. She straightened up. “If you could… start from the beginning?”

Nodding, Desmond curled his knees to his chest. “...We lived in a very small town, at the top of a hill,” he began. “Our parents were well-liked in the community; they were always asked about their latest archaeological finds in the markets. Theodore - ah, Hershel - _Layton_ , was a very… adventurous child. He’d always get into trouble.”

“That much hasn’t changed.”

Desmond laughed. “Of course it hasn’t; misadventure runs in the bloodline. But one night - a dreary night, with rain and wind - mysterious men came to our doorstep.” He narrowed his eyes, remembering the scene in vivid detail as he spoke.

_Theodore was crying at the sounds the wind made in the storm. Their mother, lounging on the couch, held him and sang him an old lullaby in a language Hershel didn’t understand, but loved nonetheless. Their father brought tea for them all, ready to settle in._

_Hershel got up to get a book from his room, barely making it past the stairs when the doorbell rang. Who would be ringing at this hour? he wondered as he approached the door, opening it to greet their unexpected guests. He wondered if it was old Sophie, coming to bring them more cakes, but the three uniformed men who greeted his eyes jarred him out of his hopes for sweets._

_“So they have a kid,” the one with the buck teeth mumbled to the one with the beard._

_“Shame,” the one with the beard muttered back. He turned to face Hershel, who was resisting the urge to close the door again; he didn’t like these two people. “Say, kid, where’re your parents?”_

_“Why?” Hershel demanded. The two men looked shocked._

_“This kid’s got attitude,” the one with the upturned nose growled, preparing to shove Hershel aside when his father’s voice rang down the hall._

_“Hershel?” Footsteps approached the foyer, Hershel never breaking defiant eye contact with Nose._

_“Hello there, Mister Bronev,” Bucktooth sneered at Hershel’s father, who stopped cold in his tracks. Red eyes raked down the uniformed suits._

_“M-May I help you?” Placing a protective hand on his son’s shoulder and urging him away from the door, his father kept a strong face despite the frightened tremor in his voice. Hershel’s eyes widened. No one made his father frightened._

_“You’ve been ignoring our letters,” Beard said._

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his father replied, too quickly to be believable. Bucktooth snarled._

_“Don’t play dumb, Bronev,” he spat. “You and your wife were warned not to go further with your research, but I guess you couldn’t put archaeological fame aside, right?”_

_His father started to shout something, but Bucktooth grabbed him by the collar and tossed him aside. Hershel’s mother came rushing down the hall, a terrified Theodore in tow. “What’s going on?” She came to Hershel’s side, making sure he was alright. Theodore, though he didn’t know what was going on, began sobbing at the chaos._

_His father got back up, standing between the men and his family. He was shouting, and Nose shouted back, but Theodore was crying and clinging to Hershel and he couldn't understand the words. Their mother was telling him to be strong, to protect Theodore, before Beard grabbed their father and pulled him away. Nose went to get their mother, but she batted his hand away and turned up her chin in haughty defiance before walking out with one last glance at her sons. Hershel could see the words in her eyes._

_“Please be safe - I know you're capable of taking care of both of you.”_

_Hershel was petrified, and Theodore was screaming, calling after their mother, trying to follow but Hershel held him back because he had to. He was too shocked to cry, adrenaline coursing through him and his eyes widening when Nose grinned at him._

_“Have fun.”_

Desmond finished his story, going quiet while Flora fought tears from brimming her eyes. He himself buried his face into his knees, hiding the urge to cry; he hadn't dredged up that memory in a long while. He was surprised he hadn't gotten over it.

“I'm sorry,” Flora whispered. Desmond lifted his head and blinked in confusion. Shaking her head, Flora swiped the back of her hand past her eyes to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall. “I can't imagine what that would be like.”

Desmond's eyes widened at Flora’s tears. Why was she crying? It hadn't happened to her; it wasn't like she could've helped. She wasn't even alive when it happened. “Why are you crying?”

Flora shook her head. “That’s just - That’s terrible. That must have been so hard.” Desmond would have scoffed at the words if he didn’t see her sincerity. This girl was letting his pain make her upset - what a fool. Nonetheless, he couldn’t stand to see a child cry. Anger he could deal with; he was fine with people being furious at him, looking to him with loathing and spite. But pure sadness… he hated it. It was easy to hate someone who was mad at him, but sadness only made him guilty. Especially when Flora reminded him so much of…

He was entirely unsure what to do. His daughter always came to him for comfort; he never knew what to do or how to actively console someone. Flora was still apprehensive around him, so he doubted she would ask for comfort. Even if she did, would he try to help her?

A gentle hand on his made him flinch. Flora tried to retract the contact, but Desmond gritted his teeth and grasped her hand in his, the tenderness of the moment strange. He would have to get used to affection, he supposed. These people were too close to each other for his comfort. But Flora was kind and easy to talk to. She was safe for him to practice emotion with.

“Do you… Would you mind telling me what happened after that?” Flora was looking him right in the eye, her gaze reassuring. If he said no, she would listen. But he wanted to let her know he trusted her - at least, he was going to try.

Desmond sighed, and thought for a moment. “After our parents were taken,” he began, feeling out every word, “we were… alone. As intelligent of a child I was, there was no way I could have supported us both. I was only nine years old at the time. I hoped someone from our village would come find us, but I was terrified that if we left the house, the few men we saw patrolling the area would capture us. So, when a letter came to announce an adoption…”

_Hershel picked up the envelope that had slipped through the mail slot. Theodore was by his side; he didn’t like being left alone even more now, after the incident. “What is it?” The boy tugged at Hershel’s sleeve, ever curious, a hopeful look in his eyes. “Is it from mama and papa?” Hershel smiled down sadly. Turning back to read the address on the letter, his heart fell after the false hope of Theodore being right was dashed at the unfamiliar names and titles._

_Hershel’s mouth quirked to the side, a habit he picked up from his father when he thought too hard. He opened the crisp paper to reveal a few documents. He plucked the first one out. Theodore asked him to read it out loud._

_“Letter of notice for the Bronev family: an adoption is to take place one week from now for…,” he paused, then finished with a gentle, quiet voice, “...Hershel Bronev to be taken in by the Layton family.”_

_Silence fell upon the two brothers while that information sank in. An adoption; an opportunity for a new family, new parents. It had only been two days since their parents were taken, and food was running low even with only the two of them. What luck for them to be abandoned the day before their shopping run. Hershel could feel Theodore’s eyes on him, waiting to see if he should be upset or if it would be fine. Hershel purposefully kept his face neutral to keep Theodore calm._

_An adoption - for him? Why him? Why only one of them? Hershel couldn’t imagine they didn’t know about Theodore. He was very young, yes, and their village was small, but… how could anyone let a four-year-old live alone, his brother gone to a new, happy family? He wouldn’t survive. He couldn’t leave him alone - but what was he supposed to do? He guessed that an adoption request had been sent out for the both of them, and his got a response first, but… did they know their situation? Who had set up the adoption? He would laugh if it turned out to be Targent._

_He couldn’t let Theodore stay here alone, that much was obvious. But an adoption had been set up for Hershel…_

_Then Hershel would go._

_He looked down at his brother’s curious expression, and kneeled to his level. “Theodore,” he began. “This says that Hershel Bronev is to be adopted by a new family.” Theodore’s expression turned to one of confused shock, the information not fully settling in. “So I need you to be Hershel Bronev for me, alright?”_

_Theodore didn’t seem to process this. Hershel reached up to pet his curly hair, waiting for the dam to break. “...But I’m not.”_

_“They don’t know that.”_

_“I’m - I’m not Hershel.”_

_“You need to be.”_

_“No!” Theodore cried, his little hands going to Hershel’s shoulders. “I’m Theodore! You’re Hershel - you’re the one they want!” Theodore had such a dignified light in his eyes, even when they were full of tears he didn’t want to shed._

_“You’re too young to be left on your own - I don’t know how long it will take for another adoption to be set up,” Hershel cooed. “I’ll be fine, Theodore.”_

_“I-I can be older! I can grow up!” Theodore exclaimed. “I don’t need to be four! I can be nine! I could take care of myself then.” Hershel’s eyes were wide as he watched his brother. His face split into a grin and he began to laugh at Theodore’s child's-logic. Those laughs turned to sobs, and he pulled Theodore to him in a tight embrace. Theodore was silent before his little hands grasped the back of Hershel’s shirt and sobbed into his shoulder._

“After we found that, we spent the next few weeks deciding what he would take with him. His favorite clothes, one stuffed animal, three books he could barely read - only what he needed to be comfortable. He never slept in his own bed - he hated being alone. I didn’t mind. The few last days we had together were bittersweet.

“The Laytons came right on time, as we finished packing his suitcase and dressed him in his nicest clothes. They didn’t realize we had switched names; that is, not until much later. By that time, Layton had settled in.” Desmond sighed. “I’m not sure when he forgot about me, but I do know that it was soon enough for him to be happy with his new life.”

Flora was silent, trying once again not to cry. Desmond waited patiently for a response. She cleared her throat, obviously wanting to say something but not sure how or if she should. Shaking her head, she seemed to gather her resolve.

“May I ask a… personal question?” Desmond nodded, apprehension bowing to his curiosity. “If you knew what would happen later in your life, would you still give up your name?”

Desmond felt ice run down his spine. The look on his face made Flora flinch. He turned back to stare wide-eyed at his lap, hands closed in fists on his knees.

“I… would prefer not to answer that, if it’s all the same to you,” he sighed. Flora nodded, and, with a slight bow, she excused herself.

She got her answers. Her only regret was the question she left him with.


	10. Retrospectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Des thinks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will basically just be Des having Problems™

Would he?

Desmond wracked his mind, staring wide-eyed at his lap. He was ready to pull his hair out; he couldn’t decide. His name he had lost early, and he didn’t have a chance to get it back – not that he wanted it, in truth. But… if he could have the chance, an opportunity for a well-informed choice, all those years ago, would he have chosen to be Hershel Layton?

Theodore was small. If things played out the same way they did for Desmond, he would’ve been alone for five days, with only a few scraps of food and water to get him by. Desmond shuddered at the memories he retained in vivid detail. By the time those who looked into the family’s disappearance had found him, he was on the verge of death. It took weeks to get his small body to full recovery – and then they threw him in an orphanage.

At only four years old, Theodore wouldn’t have survived. He would’ve died of starvation or thirst because he couldn’t reach the counter where their remaining food was stored, or the faucet. Desmond had pulled up a chair to get water, and it was a heavy one to his nine-year-old hands. Theodore would have died in that house, alone, his tiny body to be found by horrified officials with no family to host a funeral.

But his wife… his wife would be alive. She was a bit older than he was; she had a good shot at life before she met him. He was the reason she was dead right now – if he had never met her, she would be alive and happy right now, probably married to someone else. That thought didn’t make him bitter; if he had known she would’ve died because of a mistake he made, he would want nothing more than for her to be happy, even if without him. His daughter wouldn’t have been born – but… her life had ended so… horrifically, that he thought it would have been best. The times he had had with his dear family were warm and comfortable, and he was happy – they all were. He could still remember his wife’s sparkling eyes at their wedding, brushing his hair out of his face when she kissed him. She was beautiful, and she would be for as long as she lived. Desmond remembered telling her how lost he’d be without her. No one could’ve guessed how true that was, at the time. Desmond was kind and forgiving back then, ready to start anew with the aid of his beloved. But, no matter how warm and sweet the summer, winter always came, cold and bitter.

He wanted his wife to be alive, but he wanted Layton to have a shot at life as well; he was a good person. He didn’t deserve to die, especially not in the manner he inevitably would have.

Desmond himself… he didn’t know how things would play out if he were Hershel Layton. If he followed the exact same path, no matter how unlikely, he didn’t know how those tragedies would compare to his own. His head fell back against the wall, his hands forming a steeple under his chin. Would Randall have fallen into the Akbadain ruins? Would they even be friends? He scoffed at the thought. Charming as he was, Randall Ascot was obnoxious.

But their times at the reunion inn – those surprisingly tender moments, when Randall showed how soft and caring he could be, at night, when they had had a bit too much to drink. Randall had listened to him, Descole telling stories of past adventures and journeys, keeping the words safe and vague enough to keep Randall in the dark of Descole’s motives. He had been as excited as a child was when Descole showed off his slight-of-hand tricks, begging him to do it again and again until he saw the trick. He never did.

That strange, kind relationship they’d formed in the time of the Masked Gentleman only brought pain for him. It brought it into perspective. That night, when Randall had kissed him… He was caught off-guard, and found himself melting into the kiss no matter how wrong it was. It was only when Randall had pushed him onto his back that he shoved the redhead off, stuttering an apology when he fled the room, leaving Randall stunned. He had gone into his room, caught between anger and grief when his control of his emotions slipped and he realized how wrong this was. He always tried to fend off guilt.

Clark had been easy to hate, after a while. He remembered the first time he’d revealed himself to him.

_A few business partners left the mayor’s office, on the third day after Brenda’s capture. Clark had started to get worried; though his wife was adventurous without a doubt, far more than he, she’d never left unannounced. He had met with the rather surly businessmen in relative quiet; his mind was too caught up in thought to really pay attention to the words and numbers they spewed. He was released when his butler turned up to escort his guests out._

_It was Doland who opened the door for them._

_It was not Doland who closed it._

_Clark was oblivious to the man watching him like a predator to its prey. His back was turned, his hand at his chin in obvious thought._

_“Something troubling you?” Descole sneered, smirking. Clark whipped around to face him; his face, shifting from confusion to shock, made Descole laugh. “What’s wrong? Don’t you recognize me,” he mocked, changing his voice to that of the pathetic butler’s, “‘Master Triton’?” Clark was perfectly still for a long moment, taking a trembling step away from the unfamiliar man._

_“W-Who…?” Descole could see the other’s eyes raking down his form, taking in his appearance. He laughed as he took a step forward. He loved these parts; his victim was so helpless, so pliable. He didn’t have any danger here. He was free to scare him as he pleased._

_“My name is Descole,” he purred, taking out his sword in a slow, methodical motion. Clark’s terrified eyes locked onto the movement, stumbling over a book and falling against the side of his desk. “I have a few favors to ask of you. I’ve been acting upon my plans for a while now, but it is prudent that I gain your assistance.” He grinned once more, sword in hand while he approached Clark. Hoisting the bearded man on top of the desk to pin him down, Descole pressed the sword to the mayor’s chest. It was only enough to dig into the skin of his sternum; pain, and fear, but no real mortal danger. “I’m looking for something,” he murmured, his face close to Clark’s, “and I believe you can help me find it.”_

_“You’re…,” Clark gasped. “What… What are you looking for?”_

_“An ancient oasis, known as the Golden Garden.” He took in the flash of recognition that lit in Clark’s eyes, and smiled. “You’ve heard of it, no?”_

_“It-It’s a myth,” Clark stammered, then tried to look around for anything he could use as a weapon. The tip of Descole’s sword dug deeper into Clark’s chest as the masked man grasped his chin and forced him to look at him._

_“It is real, I assure you.” Descole relented his blade a bit, keeping it as a threat without furthering the little wound. “I don’t want to hurt you, Clark Triton – nor do I want to hurt your family.” Clark’s eyes widened._

_“B-Brenda…?”_

_Descole chuckled. “She is much sharper than you, it seems. She grew too close to the truth, to my lie, and had to be detained. She is safe, I assure you. As long as you comply,” he added, though he had no desire to hurt her at all. Though she was irritatingly smart, she was kind and honest – he remembered her asking him to stay away from her son as he left. He had told her that her son’s safety relied on her husband’s compliance, but he needed to find a reason to hate the otherwise mild-mannered child to keep from being hesitant to do what may or may not need to be done. They didn’t need to be hurt, but he would do what it took. Just because he felt bad about it wouldn’t keep him from doing whatever was necessary._

_“What do you want from me?” Clark asked, his voice tremulous. Descole brushed his bangs out of his face._

_“Your cooperation, and your silence. You have knowledge that I lack, for now; I am but a traveler, and you will act as a sort of guide. But my search shall remain a mystery to everyone but you. Do you understand?”_

_The fear in Clark’s eyes had turned to cold loathing. What a versatile man this was – a plethora of emotion for his entertainment. At least he was smart enough not to struggle. He could hear the gears in his head turning, trying to decide what the best course of action was. Clark closed his tear-brimmed eyes. “F-Fine. I will comply, just – just please stay away from them.”_

_Descole gave a Cheshire grin. “Good.”_

Clark was genuine when alone with Descole. He was able to pass for normal when around company to keep suspicion at bay – albeit by the skin of his teeth – but the times they had alone included Clark losing his temper with Descole, giving him fuel with which to hate the mayor to keep the guilt for manipulating him at bay.

Layton showing up had complicated matters. He remembered Raymond relaying his research of Triton to him, including his relation to Hershel Layton, with whom he was close in college. Ice-cold shock had frozen him in place; _why_? Why him? What cruel fate, to let them be opponents in this manner. He wanted the other to stay away from him, to be unattatched, safe, but the universe was intent on making his life as intolerable as it possibly could. Of all the coincidences, the mayor of the town he was focusing on and manipulating was friends with his brother, whom he hadn’t spoken to in… he didn’t know how long.

He had hurt him, so many times. He used his friends, his past, against him to his own ends, regardless of his pain. It was necessary to his goals, yes, but he had more trouble burying the guilt that clawed at his back. He couldn’t go back.

Those whom he had used never fully recovered. Randall had crushing guilt that kept him emotionally apart from his loved ones, Clark had had trouble repairing his relationship with his son, and Brenda developed an inability to stay in one place. Though those pains were more distant from him, having separated himself so that their woes didn’t hurt him, he knew that he had scarred many people. But as long as he never spoke to those people again, he would be fine and they would be stories instead of real people. Out of sight, out of mind.

All of those people, hurt by the man driven to near madness after his families had been ripped away from him. But if he had had a family…

If he had had a family, those people wouldn’t have been hurt. If he had had a family, Theodore would be dead.

Would he take his life? His life as Hershel Layton?

He didn’t know. How could he?


	11. The Difference Between Myself and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond sleepwalks.

_A face – a girl, two faces, two people, their hearts similar and shining, too kind, too new, too innocent. Cartilage where bone should have grown strong._

_They had gone, disappeared from him as quickly as one child’s small hands had been pulled from another’s — too fast, in your eyes, it was too fast — happened too quickly, make it stop. Not wanting the moment to end, not wanting the word ‘gone’ to mean anything yet. Not wanting the option of mourning – keep the moment, the very cusp, keep it and never let it move forward, you never move forward, the world spins around you and you ignore it. Keep this fantasy, keep this space frozen in time._

_You’re safer here. No need to feel pain; no need to feel alone when no one has left you._

 

* * *

 

  
Des’ eyes fluttered open; he turned to look at his window. It was still dark — turning to the clock reveals the time: two thirty. Something was trying to burn in him, a spark trying to kindle a flame, but the sting never came. He felt odd. Numb. Was he awake? He felt — dreamy. Like he could do anything and wake up to find the things he’d done erased. He didn’t have an excuse to be awake – and yet he swung his legs over to the side of his bed, his hair pooling in waves around him, getting up and straightening the button-down nightshirt he wore before walking to a door that he silently opened.

He didn’t know what he wanted to do, but he kept moving: down the stairs, around the corner. Did he come for water? He saw the faucet, and ignored it. His mind had a silent storm in it; he could see thoughts, see the screams, the pain, but he didn’t feel anything. It was like watching them through a window. Through prison bars, where he watched but couldn’t move from the safety of his solitude. He didn’t feel a fire in his eyes.

He couldn’t place why he found himself standing on the little balcony. His arms crossed over the railing, small vines of overgrown plants greeting the fabric of his shirt. He wasn’t sure if he was thinking. His mind had gone somewhere without him, leaving him leaning on the ledge of the balcony of his brother’s house.

He should have been bored, standing here in the cold without anything to do or think. But boredom is born from emotion, from the craving of stimuli – he didn’t need any of that. This strange, perverse peace held him still. He didn’t know how long he’d stood in that same spot, the only parts that moved being the hair that shifted in the wind and his heart, beating in a mechanical rhythm.

 

* * *

 

  
Hershel awoke with a start. His heart felt heavy, yet he couldn’t fathom why; he didn’t often have dreams, and nothing bad had happened the day before. He glanced at the clock at his bedside: four fifty-three. Hm.

The sky had begun to gather hints of light, creeping over the horizon. As Hershel got up to wander, searching for the source of the strange air of the house, he found himself watching the shadows. The windows cast light over the furniture; a vase, an old globe, railing where the stairs were.

A figure on the balcony.

Hershel’s eyes widened, and he found himself going closer, putting a hand on the cold wall and watching his brother, whose back was turned turned, not moving at all. Hershel found it difficult to believe he was even breathing.

He knew Desmond heard the door open and close behind him, he was normally on guard at all times, flinching at unexpected touch and not allowing anyone behind him. Yet Desmond didn’t move, his hair falling in waves around him, drifting in the breeze. It was… peaceful, yet something was wrong.

He would have urged Desmond back inside, but he elected to stand beside Desmond, hands on the railing, looking at the other’s profile.

He didn’t look aloof or apathetic; those carried a negative air. Empty and hollow make it sound as though he looked broken – he knew that word fit with him, but… the correct term would be blank. Like he was waiting for something to occupy him, give him color or a purpose.

His red eyes didn’t move from a spot on the street; the only movement Hershel could see was the slow blinks that came on occasion. He had stood and watched in curiosity for at least two minutes before Desmond spoke.

“Do you ever feel like you’re… missing something?” His voice wasn’t harsh, as it often was with Hershel. It was soft, quiet, gentle. “Like the instructions to life were written in a language you couldn’t understand, yet everyone else seemed to?”

Hershel didn’t know how to respond right away. The silence only carried for a few moments; it didn’t really feel like Desmond was talking to him.

Des’ eyes still held that faraway melancholy, his voice still distant, dreamy. “I could have been happy.” A movement – his hand moving to prop his head upon it. “I remember having… hope, having joy. I remember being able to live without wishing I didn’t have to.

“Yet I feel as though that peace was behind a lock, and the one key I had – the key gifted to me by those I held dear – was taken from me when they were. I’d never searched for a key after that; I refused. I didn’t want happiness. I felt as though feeling joy without them would be… wrong. Like I was betraying them. No matter how much time passes, I feel as though I haven’t mourned enough. I want to prove to their memory how much they meant to me.”

“You don’t need to, you know,” Hershel replied, his voice gentle. “I don’t think they’d want you to live like this.”

The laugh Desmond gave was empty. “‘Live.’ What a funny word. What does it mean to ‘live?’”

Taken aback, Hershel took a moment before replying. “…To live is to be alive. To be functioning and present, able to act and move.”

“No,” Desmond mused. “That is survival. That is what I’ve been doing. What does ‘living’ entail?”

Hershel’s hands tightened their grip. He once again had to think through his answer. “…To be with those you care about. To let them into your life and to help them grow.”

Desmond smiled. “That’s what I’m missing.”

“You have people who care about you, you know.”

“I’m aware of that.” Des sighs, leaning over his crossed arms. “Raymond hasn’t stuck with me for pay all these years.” Leaning down, Des rested his chin on his arms. “He cares. I know he does. And yet I’ve done nothing in return but cause him worry, take his support for granted. I couldn’t have done the things I did without the knowledge that at least he sees what little good in me there is. Knowing he’d be there was a comfort.”

After another moment where Hershel felt out of place, confused, Desmond straightened up.

“You should go back to sleep, Layton. There’s no use to you being with me right now.”

Hershel wanted to respond, but Desmond had turned to the door and passed through it, leaving the threshold open for Hershel to enter as well.

That was the most Desmond had said to him; at least, the most he’d spoke about himself or his state of mind. What he said rang as true, but… he wasn’t sure if Desmond was really lucid. Was he sleepwalking?

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Desmond hesitantly left his room only to get tea and take a shower; he was lucid, the light was back in his eyes. He didn’t mention what he’d said to Layton, but he caught Layton watching him in worry multiple times while he filled the kettle. Desmond was on guard; he didn’t like being downstairs, in the open.

“What?” Desmond finally asked. Layton flinched at the irritation in his voice, then straightened himself once more.

“Do you…,” he began, not knowing how to bring up the exchange they’d had. He needed to be vague. “Did you sleep well last night?”

Desmond blinked. Why was he asking? “I did, if you must know. May I ask why you ask?”

Layton didn’t respond for a long moment. “…Just curious.” Desmond looked him over, then nodded.

Desmond had come downstairs of his own volition. He was defensive, yes; he didn’t want attention. Would rather his presence downstairs be ignored. Layton’s scrutiny was nerve wracking.

He didn’t remember, it seemed.

Later in the day, he caught Raymond’s attention while he put together a meal for Desmond.

“Pardon me, but does…,” he trailed off, Raymond waiting patiently to continue. He couldn’t decide what to call Desmond – his first name seemed too close, but the other names didn’t fit him right now. He sighed. “Does he sleepwalk?”

Raymond looked him over, then nodded. “He does, on occasion.” The Scotsman turned to the platter again. “If he said anything to you, it would be best not to mention it.”

“…Understood. Thank you.”

He at least had an idea of what was going through Desmond’s mind. He wasn’t sure how to put it to action, but… it was a start. 


	12. Lively

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Des teaches Flora how to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's an update. wow!

This time they had hot chocolate. Flora and Desmond were already on friendly terms; he appreciated the raw intelligence she showed, the empathy he lacked — not to mention their shared experiences in loneliness. She was a good conversationalist when she got going, telling Desmond stories of the hijinks she’d get up to on Layton’s watch. But with each passing tale, Des noticed a trend.

“You seem to be captured often,” Desmond mused, a frown creasing his face.

Flora paused, then gave a blithe smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in real danger, per se, but… yes, people do use me as some sort of ransom piece more than I’d like.” Desmond shifted on his chair, crossing his legs the other way.

“Why don’t you fight back?” Desmond swirled his drink in his cup.

Hands wringing, Flora looked to the side. “I… I don’t know how. I’m always outmatched by a landslide.”

“You don’t know how? I would have thought Layton taught you how to defend yourself after you were endangered the first time.” Flora set her jaw.

“You’d think he would.” With a sigh, she drained the last of what was in her mug. “I want to learn, but he always brings up the dangers of teaching me to fight and tells me to be careful.” Desmond chokes a laugh.

“If he’s worried about you being in danger, then he should let you know how to keep yourself safe,” he stated, arching an eyebrow.

“ _Exactly!_ ” Desmond could see the pent-up frustration welling within the girl. “He thinks I’m fragile, or careless. He thinks I’m incapable, I can see it. I don’t know why — if it’s because I’m a girl, or if it’s because I’m young—“

“Isn’t Luke younger than you?”

“Yes! He is!” Flora was practically shaking now. “And the professor lets him do all these amazing, dangerous things, and he doesn’t even let me cut vegetables without supervision!”

Desmond ground his teeth — he didn’t think he could be more fed up with Layton, but here he was. “Are you more interested in hand-to-hand combat, or fencing?”

Flora paused, then her mouth went to a tight line, withholding an expression of absolute glee. “Erm… I don’t know, really. Which would be more useful?” Des could see she was trying to stay serious.

“Well, the occasions for hand-to-hand combat are more common than those for fencing, much to my chagrin. You may not always have a weapon.” Her grin was no longer restrained — Desmond had to smile. “When would you like to start?”

 

They took the times when they were alone in the house, save for Raymond; the Professor and Luke had gone off to the university, to stay for nearly ten hours at a time.

Flora was a good student. While she lacked in physical strength (for now), Des had no trouble teaching her to fight well; he was well versed in prioritizing speed and accuracy over brute force. She was a bit clumsy at first, getting flustered when she missed a hit or got caught by a practice swing Des gave. She seemed disheartened often, but the fact that Des didn’t treat her like a child kept her going; he was aware of how capable she was, and his willingness to let her get a bit bruised while sparring was, oddly enough, encouraging to her. He would ask if she was alright or if she wanted to pause, she said she was fine. She felt strong. She wasn’t fragile.

Merely a week passed of these lessons before Flora knocked Des off his feet. She’d covered her mouth in shock, readying an apology when Des started laughing.

“Well done,” he said with a grin. He pushed himself up, wincing at the point at the back of his knee where she’d given a well-placed kick.

“Are you okay?” Flora couldn’t hold back the laughter mixing with the concern in her voice.

“I’m alright; that was a good hit. I didn’t see it coming.” Desmond stood with some difficulty, still smiling. “Raymond?”

His old friend peeked his head from around the corner of the hall. “Hm?”

“Could you bring us glasses of water?” He saw Raymond nod in response.

He didn’t see the smile that graced the old man’s face. Des barely ever drank water, and to ask explicitly for it... _Small victories_ , he thought to himself.

 

It wasn’t long before Flora was getting good hits on Des at every session. She was quick and observant, memorizing his tactics enough to find vulnerabilities: when he blocked by crossing his wrists in front of him, she kicked his shin – small openings, small diversions of focus.

He knocked her down several times. He couldn’t bring himself to physically attack her head-on, but he did take the opportunities he saw to swipe her off her feet. He wasn’t used to fighting this way; he usually focused on precision, quick attacks used instead of the wider, more general motions he used when fighting Flora. That said, she did have a knack at catching him genuinely off-guard on the occasions when he fell back into his normal style.

Raymond watched them spar with no small amount of satisfaction. Flora was not only a quick learner, but she’d also succeeded in getting Desmond to really interact with her. He hadn’t seen Desmond so alive in years.

All three of them, despite this routine they’d gotten into, had similar concerns: if the Professor found out about their practice fights, and if he found that Des had no trouble letting her get bruises, what would happen?


	13. Unfortunate news

Hhhey y'all... nessie here

I'm really, REally sorry, but this fic is discontinued -- i'm afraid i have little interest in PL anymore, and i've found a new hyperfixation. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience!!

I had a whole bunch of plans for oncoming chapters, stuff i'd just sat on and thought up before bed, or on long drives, or... idk any time i listen to music and daydream. i had a REALLY cool thing thought up that led the Gang to the small town out in the boonies where the bronev's old house was, des being a shitbaby and Not Wanting to go, meeting some ppl who knew them as kids and being like what The Hell

It's. unfortunate, and it pains me to say i have no inspiration to continue. i'm very, very sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Um... yeet  
> This will be several chapters long yay......


End file.
